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Leila Sep 29
A *******’s wish
Is not to be seen, heard, or smelt
Not even to be acknowledged
Or validated
A ******* does not suffer hope

A masochists delight
Comes with a cry
A scream, a weep
And at the end a sly wink
Help is not a want

A masochists lip
Will quiver shakily
Pain is a complex
Don’t question me
my first love was young rebellion
and how it made me feel.
my second love was abuse.

I have been asked,
on more than one occasion,
how I could fall in love with
a man who I was scared of.

my masochism was
inside of me for years
before I admitted to it.
I like to talk about how
I didn’t know that it was
wrong for him to hurt me,
but somewhere deep in the
back of my young mind,
I did know.
I realize that now.

I realize now that
maybe I enjoyed it.
maybe that was part of it,
my own fantasies leaking
through the cracks of my
innocent, good girl persona.
or maybe I truly believed
that his abuse was
all I deserved.

my childhood had taught me that
I broke everything that I touched.
I came from a broken household
with a broken family.
I broke both of my legs at one time,
and started the next school year
with two bright casts.
I broke toys that weren’t mine,
and ceramic dishes that
I threw down too hard,
and the hinges of every
bedroom door that I slammed shut.
I broke hearts, including my own.

when I fell in love,
I had finally met someone
with no conscience and
no concept of morality.

he was a sociopath,
a narcissist, an abuser.
he was the perfect
subject for my poetry,
and the perfect match
to my masochism.

I looked at him and wrote
that he was the diagnoses
that flooded the pages
of some therapist’s notes.
he was the embodiment
of the pain that he inflicted,
terrifying but somehow
too attractive to resist.

he was a love story
jotted down by a nihilist,
a black hole taking me
deeper and deeper.
he was a blank slate
that could not be
written over.

he was as empty as a bottle in
the hands of an alcoholic,
a freshly dug grave waiting
patiently for a body.

I worshipped him
like an absent father,
idolizing his image
as if I had only ever
known of his appearance
and normality and charm.
I acted as if I had no idea
that beneath the surface of his skin,
he was nothing more than
a living corpse.

if chaos theory is
as real as death, and
if I was never traumatized
and grew up happily,
I doubt that any of this
would have happened.
but it did.

whenever someone asks how
I could fall in love with
a man who I was scared of,
I tell them this.

I tell them that
I fell in love with him
because he was already
missing something inside.
his mind had glitched
somewhere in his past,
and then it failed to restart.
he did not feel emotions
the way that other people do.
I’m not sure if he could
feel anything at all.
he was already broken.

I fell in love with him
because he was the only thing
I had ever encountered that
I knew I couldn’t break.
The guy with the deep red hair
Feasting on blood red wine
To drown his bleeding red heart
In sorrow with his red rimmed eyes,

Sulking in pure rusty despair
With his red rusted hair
As his rusted feelings push through air
For which he received a rusted affection to bear

Full of projections of hollow care
The games he played, it wasn't fair
Hearts he sets on fire like his flaming hair Warming his cold heart with empty promises and hollow dares
The Blood Red Prince on his Blood Red Throne.
He has sensitive teeth, yet 
he sips frigid liquids for 
the same reason he goes out 
of his way to stamp on ants.

by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
On one hand, this obviously has a deeper meaning, but on the other hand, what an idiotic ****!
Empire Apr 2
Do you ever just have those moments
When your heart turns black and rots
Your mind gets high on the angst
The suffering is all you need
And you want it... more of it
Listen to gruesome, terrible songs
Sounds of screaming and pain
Loss and grief wrap you like a blanket
It hurts but you’re at home
It’s dangerous but you feel safe
And then the moments come more often
Blurring into days... weeks...
Until you’ve lived in your agony for months
Begging for something more
Tell me a story
Tell me of death and tragedy
Tell me of self destruction
It’s addicting to me
Ketanya Rose Jan 30
Cutting my organs and rearranging my bones
Discarding of the skin like ***** band aide
Watering insecurities and dipping in my pink
Fitting me in the solace of your neck
But never in your arms
Drowning in your touch
Etching into my memory the bitter sweetness of this
One sided love
Craving your torture and remedy in one.....
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