Masochists

Our parts are burried
In self-made pits
We revisit in peril.

To purge them, beginning,
Would toil us too much,
Too viable to carry.

We must be sent, treading mountains,
To tend to callouses
Self-rooted  in the dirt.

We retrieve them
From earth to vent,
Then tuck them back to fester.

Our masochism feeds us.
The afterglow of agony
Is euphoria.