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Damages
His lips leave a bold impression
 on the nape of my neck,
 as if to stamp his claim
 on my body in plain sight.
 
 The need for possession flows
 through the rough skin of his hands—
 hands that travel up my arms,
 my shoulders, my throat—
 where they stop,
 
 a ligature wrapped tightly
 over the bruise of his kiss.
 
 There is no love in this man.
 I pray one day I won’t belong to him.

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