I have a sign on my chest
that says "trespassers
welcome."

It's written in red ink,
the cheap kind that never really dries
and with each new boy
that invites himself into my home,
the letters become smudged.

I try to remove the sign
but it remains there
etched into my skin
and the more I pull at my skin
the stronger the pain
in my chest grows.

Trespassers are only temporary
and I pray that one day
they will stop reading my body
as an open invitation but

until that day.
My chest
will be painted
​red.

You have a heart shaped freckle on your body.
You have a mouth shaped bruise on your neck.
You wear a certain type of sweatshirt on your birthday
as a precaution in case they were to check
if someone had given you a love bite  
sunken lips deep into your skin,
but dear lover, a lesson you have yet to learn-
leaving the heart shaped freckle on display was your sin.

The hickeys faded as the bruises began appearing
As if we find the bruises on each other more beautiful
Maybe we're meant to be together so that we don't hurt anybody else

Your lips
run through my skin
Painting portraits
of your feelings,
in shades of red and purple.
How could I desire
sugar coated lies
in my ears
when I can see clearly,
every thought
in your mind
written all over my skin.

“That’s so high school,” they say.
“What are you, fifteen?” they ask.
But why?
I call them battle wounds,
And you’ve always hated that.
But why?
What we do in bed is who we are
Let me carve valleys into your back
With my sharpened fingers.
Puncture my legs with your jagged nails
Until I stain the ocean dark, dark black.
Claw, bite, rip, tear, gnaw
Your way to my heart.
Take it in your mouth and crunch down,
Until we mix into one. Until we are.
What were we?
Friends, acquaintances, lovers, enemies, strangers,
It doesn’t matter anymore. Now we’re one.
I will leave whatever marks on you I can,
Be they out of love and passion.
I will colonize your skin, make my home in
Every pore and crevice.
I will mark what is mine in that moment,
Out of fear that you will be gone tomorrow.
Do the same to me. Make me yours.
Strip my identity from my bones,
Replace my flesh with you, with us, with this.
Your friends’ lovers don’t leave marks like that?
Your friends don’t know how to love like I do.
We are what we do in bed,
and I leave marks.

You're a hickey on my neck,
bruised and red,
marking your territory,
refusing to fade.