Wound

The red on my cheeks from your stubble,
so bright in the sunlight the next morning;
now blended in.

My lips, once raw on the inside, salt and blood,
as you pressed them hard into my teeth;
now smooth and healed.

Fingernail marks, my own, pressed into my hands
as you held my fists tight as I came;
now vanished.

Teeth marks on my shoulder, your passion marked
in a crude semi-circle, red on white flesh;
now faded.

The bruise on the inside of my thigh, small and dark,
from your fingers, pressed into my soft flesh;
now just a pale yellow.

The handprint on the rounded edge of my backside,
splayed fingers evident in strips of pink and white;
now just a memory.

The tender flesh between my legs, once swollen
and flushed from your hard insistence;
now just a dull ache.

So why, if my body heals so quickly, obliterates
the repeated assaults of our passion;

Why does it feel like the same wound on my heart
bleeds a little, each time you are near?