Marked

“He said it with everything he did, every touch, every caress, every physical pleasure he bestowed upon me. Give it all to me. Give me your will.”
― Kitty Thomas, Comfort Food

“Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body

“Everywhere he touches is fire. My whole body is burning up, the two of us becoming twin points of the same bright white flame.”
― Lauren Oliver, Delirium


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I sit here tonight by the window, listening to the breeze play in the trees, and I can’t help thinking about the way I am changed, marked by Shepherd, as a Wolf would mark his territory, his property, his own. I spent the weekend in his arms, in his presence, and his fingers became brushes, his teeth became a chisel, every implement he chose became a pen writing love as though in ink upon my skin.

You see... tonight I am sitting on bruises. As I shift in my chair, I am acutely aware of welts and scratches, knots and abrasions, all evidence of his love for me -- of the exquisite and intense pain he has given me as a gift, like a sparkling jewel or the gleaming silver collar that will soon grace my neck. Each tender spot reminds me that if I trust him, he will hurt me. He will push me and stand guard over me. He will watch me break and set me free to fly. He will gather me into his arms, putting me back together, centered and whole. I may leave him to fly home, entirely too soon, but I will bear these marks in my flesh, long after.

This makes me inordinately happy, but this is not all.

There are other marks that never fade, marks that I carry with me in my heart, on my soul, marks perhaps more profound, more indelible than any he could place on my flesh. I am forever changed by the marks none else can see. For sometimes, he kneels before me -- my Sir at the feet of his girl -- and he takes my face into his hands. He counts the ways he loves me as though he were Shakespeare, until he is confident I am assured of his commitment to me. He kisses the tattoo on my wrist that bears the names of my children, and the wedding ring that represents my life with Husband. He thanks me for sharing my family with him, and for remaining true to them, to who I am beside them.

He affirms my poet heart, encourages my writing, my creativity, and my emotion, even when it’s messy and can frustrate us both. He asks about my goals, and makes them his own. He makes room and shares wisdom so that I can grow. He offers patience that seems it may never end. He serves me. He believes in me. He accepts me. He loves me just the way I am, and invites me to stand alongside him, for the rest of our lives.

If you could see these marks, you would know, I am not the girl I was when Shepherd and I met, three years ago. Perhaps you can see the results? I am more me, more his, more at peace. I am forever changed and changing, and I carry his marks in my heart, my soul and my flesh.

I am truly his, and that mark will never fade.

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