When you told me you didn’t love me anymore,
I still had your bites of passions on my chest.
The imprints of your fingers grasp were still on my thighs.
And warmth of your soul was still embracing my heart.
It’s funny how with few words,
your marks of lust can turn to bruises of disgust.
The body that once had signs of our connection,
now shows spots of my shame.