There are certain parts of misery
That never made sense to me.
I never caught on to the self harm thing,
I figured I already felt bad enough.
I never drank it away,
Because a hangover was just a reminder
That putting a coat on
Doesn't stop the snow.
DABDA doesn't make sense either.
How can you be angry
About something you haven't accepted yet?

I do now understand masochism.
I certainly don't practice it,
But I get it.

The thing with masochism
Is that you really have to love it.
You really have to let go.
My nerves are just nerves.
My skin is just skin.
My eyes just make drawings out of ****.
******* purple from the fourth wall
Letting the people eat a different truth.

My brain on a steady loop
Of Whose Line Is It Anyway reruns
Just waiting to invent the next thing
We all take for scripture.

I begged for you to touch me tonight.
I begged for you to dig your fingers into my skin,
to leave crimson half crescent moons into my being.
but you didn't.
you didn't and that hurt more than if you had
because my soul was aching for a comfort so painful it would bring only bliss.

'you're such a good girl'
beep beep beep

unfamiliar breathing, followed by
silence. my naked body is
alone on my bed sheets.
loneliness breaks my own hand and
morals for a way to get
off but i don't. i sit there and
conjure up sweet whisperings
of how i want you. *******,
deep and hard and cold.

if i'm such a good girl, then
tell me. why do i wish my flesh
will melt away like the leaves?
masochistic idiosyncrasies
wrap my vanilla heart up in
a pretty little bow. your fingers
beg to scratch off my humanity;
they have to wait their turn.

he looks at the world through ragged eyes,
he gazes lovingly up at Her,
his daily façade a disguise,
Inside a cur.
She looks at the world with ambitious intent,
Her sadistic malice is his pleasure,
Her feet on his back quite content,
A moment he will treasure.

his obedience runs deep,
Moments of agony are memories to keep.

now
i'm not speaking for everyone
just the ones
who are like me

it's not masochism
neither is it psychotic
but the pain we love
and the love we pain

for pain brings us
to new levels of understanding (the self, others)
to greater heights of seeing (the self, others)
to lower grounds with (the self, others)

p a i n
the dreaded four lettered word
l o v e
another dread in another day

the immeasurable love
that brings us
immeasurable pain
and yet we throw ourselves in

for what more can pain/love do
except to make you feel
                                          ...pain?

Reduction can be degrading when I'm reduced to cigarettes and pills.
Because when I'm awake I can remember faces,
I can even remember each touch.
So I'm lost in a kaleidoscope made up of loathing, with parts remembered as pleasure.
Every time I reminisce about quivering lips, I'm reminded of blood-shot eyes.
I'm in between rebirth and death itself.
Running between fear and obsession.
It's been a long road, and each stop was a harsh lesson.
It might be pride but I keep reminding myself until my body is buzzing with life.
Masochistic tendencies, all a fear of control and decisiveness.
Keep playing games to pass the time, playing at feeling alive.
We only endorse a fantasy of indulgence and ego.
Who are we to keep lying to ourselves?
Saying we're alive and well when all we want to ask is what if it isn't?