Fumbling barefooted in your room,

rummaging through crumpled

jeans and soiled shirts,

shimmying into clothes,

I look down at myself and see it.

A swollen purple baseball

on my left breast.  How dare you

mark me with your seal of sex,

last night’s whiskey

must have numbed

your thirsty lips as we tumbled

about the mattress, clawing

at each other like angry cats,

leaving a Trojan trail

along the floor.

I have been branded

by inebriated passion,

a blackened badge

of promiscuity plastered

across my chest.

You can see the sex stain

even with my shirt on—

it takes three big Band-Aids

to cover it.