The M A S O C H I S T
Hurt is not an enemy,
And pain is not my foe,
You vilify my need for it because you cannot know,
The satisfaction that I feel,
That rush from deep within,
When all my faults are on display as crimson on my skin.
You cannot bind me tight enough,
I’d wish it tighter still,
The agony it brings to me reminds me that I’m real,
I hide this pain in shadows,
Shelter every act from light,
Existing in the deepest parts I try to keep from sight.
I’m waiting for the day I lose,
This little game of mine,
My ‘right’ and ‘wrong,’ they co-exist with no dividing line,
There’s comfort in this misery,
This refusal to be numb,
I’m not ashamed – nor am I proud – of what I have become.
Another wound to grow the void,
A darkness that I crave,
This torment raging war in me, I want to be it’s slave,
My secrets might condemn me,
But their truths are mine to tell,
I don’t belong in Heaven and I’m not afraid of Hell.
I’ve made myself the enemy,
The consequences mine,
A captive of this emptiness, no sorrow more divine,
I’ll search for ways to deepen it,
This pain, I’ll see it through,
I’ll tear away at what has healed and make the old scars new.
© April Slaughter