You wear your conquests proudly, like battle scars
after plowing through her defenses and beating a hasty retreat,
the sweat and stench are medals emblazoned on a returning hero's jackets as he greets his adoring peers.
They're meant to be seen, an unspoken coolness.
You would have me treat my conquests as open wounds,
having snared my target like a sneaky enemy assassin,
the dishelved hair and smeared lipstick may well be from friendly fire, warning others to keep their distance for their own good.
They're meant to be regretted and swept under the rug.