I won't cover up his bruises.
I won't give him the satisfaction of having reached me. I wear the marks with pride and a sadistic joy.
He never puts them where anyone can see them, of course. We are not meant to be found out. It becomes a game, seeing how many bruises and cuts and marks and scratches we can inflict upon one another in one night.
They are marks of possession, and to cover them up and hide them would be to relent, to surrender.
So every night we flee to each other's arms and express our anguish through passion and pain. They are not as far apart as some might think.
And sometimes I wonder, is it love?
Love is a harsh and alien word created by forgotten gods and fading idols.
Love is a word which has no substance and no weight in the room where we retreat and worship each other with kisses and bruises.
We never agreed on it happening. We merely locked our gaze one day and we both knew.
Need and desire overpowered sense and logic.
We tell no one. But we are not ashamed.
If we were, we would hide the marks.
Sometimes people see them. Then the excuses are so convenient.
I ran into someone.
And all of the lies are truthful in their falsehood. They swallow them up, gullibly drinking them in because they do not wish to question more, because they would not believe the truth if we proclaimed it to the world.
After all, they would be so very shocked.
The seductive power of illicit heat and searing pain can convince anyone. But no one could ever understand. Unless of course, they have gazed into his silver eyes and have felt him devour them. Unless they have lain upon his bed and heard him whispering abuse and insults and words of love intermingled in their ear. Unless they have whispered back.
Outward pain hurts less. And bruises can express so much more than he cares to with words. Eyes and tongues and hands are so much more eloquent.
Love is a word that has no place in our world, yet we are made up of it.
We belong to it more than we belong to each other, more than we belong to the pain.
I'm not supposed to be with him. He has even less right to be with me; a mudblood.
Yet we have no choice. Maybe it is less love than a twisted, warped sort of destiny, binding us together, tearing our flesh and fusing it into one.
His gaze locks mine and I know not to hide my bruises.