2020

All the men with who I have been with, have learned quickly about my easily bruising skin. Their fingertips can be found on my hips and neck long after the touch has passed, and their hands lifted from my skin. After I have taken a shower to wash off the sweat and touch on the surface. Blue marks appear on my skin within the next twelve hours, showing traces of past love making within the upcoming days.

It’s always the next morning when walking to the bathroom and I’m slowly turning my body in front of the mirror, searching for proofs about the last night, making myself aware of the locations to prepare myself for the public looks. I wear them with pride most of the days. Some days I cover them with my make-up, carefully applying layers of primer and foundation on them, especially when located on my neck. This happens when I need to stand in front of the meetings. It happened once when I decided to leave them uncovered and I noticed the decrease of attention that people gave to my words after they discovered the marks on my neck. Sometimes big and even; sometimes few small ones, chronologically in row. But on other days, I leave them. I wash them with soap and warm water and choose a shirt which sometimes gives them their full attention. It represents some sort of empowerment. Femininity. The power of sex and lovemaking. Somewhere between the line of presenting my worth in a physical body. That I choose and that people choose me. Desire what has been responded to.

I spent a night at a hotel abroad alone. After hours of reading a book in the bath I ran for myself, I felt hunger and called downstairs to the restaurant to book myself a table. I put my heels on and pull over a shirt, exposing my bare shoulders and neck. I put my curly hair up with a clip, aware of how that reveals the big bruise on the back of my neck, appeared on my body only a night earlier. I am aware of every aspect of it. I am aware of my naked shoulders exposing my bony collarbones, my long blonde hair up carelessly, only parts of it hanging out, my painted red lips and me dining alone without my phone nearby and that the noticeable bruise on my back is visible to everyone who decides to see. I am sitting in that low dimmed lighted area, located by the window, waiting for my fig salad to arrive. I open the book which is still moist from the turned pages that I read when in the bath. My strong tobacco and leather perfume fills up the room. Every detail around me is well designed to be noticed. I want to be noticed. I desire to be seen by people who decide to see, leaving them wondering. Silent empowerment. After the first dry martini is sent to my table, followed by the one I ordered myself, I smile at the man who is sitting two tables behind me. I eat my salad, read my book, take a sip from the second martini and as I feel finished, I stand up, nod to the man as an appreciation and leave. I decide. He is a pass. I’m free but occupied.

Year ago, after I broke up with my then boyfriend, I travelled to his hometown after months apart, turning what, we broke up. We sat in his living room, wording our final thoughts and getting ready for my departure again, shortly after a few hours of arrival. He sits on my left side, looking at me with the eyes that reveal past lived love, still strong enough to bloom into another flame but that’s not why we are there, sitting on that sofa. His eyes stop on my arms.

“You have bruises on your arms,” is all he says, after he stands up to bring us water from the kitchen.

All the men with who I have been with, more than once, have learned quickly about my easily bruising skin. What once has been the power and pride of theirs, has become mine.