She wakes up and sees the bruises
but she doesn't know where they came from.
No, it's not like that, she wonders which
table corner or dresser drawer she has idly clipped
this time and why it doesn't hurt more
when the marks are so colorful and large.
She remembers going to work in those days
muscles sore from last night's fucking,
new muscles she hadn't been aware of,
a secret twinge that made her smile
or sometimes wonder why it didn't
hurt more to leave.
God, it feels good to purge. No,
it's not like that, she doesn't retch
except metaphorically
while that which she no longer
needs comes spilling out
not even leaving a mark.
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