And had you come over
And snapped my wrists
And bent them backward
And cut my skin
And blackened my eyes
And left me unrecognizable
I would have wanted you all the more.

Hurt me
With your words
With your eyes
With your hands
And with mine
And I'll be yours forever.

This is a sickness
The same one that likes it rough
That drinks too much
That blackens my lungs
That makes getting up in the morning
Almost impossible.

Loving the things that hate me the most
Is a reflection of questionable self love
And rampant self doubt
And nausea
And wanting you to understand
That you could have kept hurting me
And I wouldn't have walked away.