When I tell him where, it’s not an invitation.
It’s a placement. A signal. A seal.
He doesn’t come to be relieved.
He comes to be placed.
The mark that speaks
When I keep his semen on my skin; I don’t do it for novelty.
I do it so the message lands.
He sees it.
He knows: he belongs there.
I feel it.
I know: I claimed him.
It’s not about mess.
It’s about memory.
It’s about holding the moment long enough to let it change him.
