ENTRY 2:
[ ATLAS OF BRUISES AND SCARS ]
DEAR YOU,
Kissing was your favorite past time; we'd kiss for hours on Sunday mornings, until our lips were swollen and turned a rosy-red. We wouldn't pull apart until our lungs tightened, demanding air. You'd pull away, panting and giggling. Those were good times, weren't they? Just us, alone in a world we could call ours.
Our world was covered with lilacs, silk feathers, and the soft swaying of the ocean. Our world was sweet and innocent—always trapped in that perfect moment of euphoria, after we kiss but before we pull apart.
I still remember seeing you the day after our first meeting; lying in bed beside me, pale skin glistening with sweat, dark red blotches against your thighs, and bruises against your throat. You always looked so beautiful the morning after; when your skin was still raw and sore, covered with my marks; my kisses; my fingerprints; my scent.
But you didn't complain, even though you winced every time I dragged the tips of my fingers across the swollen skin, you were always like that; so good.
So good for me.
You understood.
You always understood.
We just sort of happened; I had never meant for you and I to become a we. You would stop by my apartment, when the sun had started to set; all bright eyed and worshiping, as though I was an immortal God in front of you. Some sort of divine being. You'd stare at me; blinking, lips stretched, and so very tiny.
I'd always let you inside.
You'd come by, we'd screw, you'd stay overnight.
It became our thing.
Slowly, your body had become the atlas of our relationship; marks and bruises scattering across your ghostly skin, a map of what we had done.
Remember that bruise against your thigh, when I insisted that we screw against the bathroom stall that night at your mother's reception? Or that dark welt that had formed against your throat when my fingernails tore into your sensitive skin? Or that time my teeth sunk into your collar, leaving that nasty mark that tainted your skin for weeks?
You didn't complain.
You never complained.
I asked you if it hurt, if you didn't want to do it anymore—I would have understood if you said no. But you said liked it, too; liked the pain because it was real. You liked the way that it lingered on your skin.
So, I continued.
Not just for me, but for you, too.
You said that you wished I would destroy you, wished that I'd ruin you. It was an odd request, I realized. But I liked it, too. I liked the way your skin was marked, bruised, and tattered. I liked the way that you winced when I brushed against your bruise, or how you cried out when I hit you—we were so very, very odd. Creatures of habit. You'd moan, remember? When my hand came down across your face, like you begged me to do.
I thought it was odd, but I did it for you.
You'd always keep your shirt on when we screwed, I never understood why until you showed me. When you asked me to follow you into the washroom, asked me to see you. Asked me to finally see you. See all of you. I didn't understand. I didn't know what that meant, but I followed.
