I keep on asking myself
Why do I write all of these poems
All about you,
Even if they started off differently
Why do I keep on loving you so much
After all this harm?
Is this even good?
I mean, it's a beautiful way of masochism
But I love it, of course I do,
I love you,
It's masochism

write a poem about me
and compare my auburn hair
to the twilit autumn sky.

say I’m the most important person
that ever walked into your life.
say it, and mean it.

translate your verses into Italian
and scream them for me at 1am
so I can appreciate but not understand.

love me like no one else has.
show me why I’m a plant
and you’re the sun.

break my heart and fix it up
then break it all over again.
I wouldn’t mind, not at all.

write another poem about me
and compare our memories
to the faded Polaroids we never took.

I like hurting myself.
It makes me feel alive
The physical pain,
The emotional torture,
Masochism.
I find satisfaction in letting myself feel unwanted.
I cry myself to sleep almost every night
I find contentment in bawling my eyes out
The process of breaking my heart is the proof that it is still beating,
that I am still breathing,
and still very much alive.
The fact that I am sad, makes me glad
It reminds me of my
existence –soon to be dissolved by my own blood and tears.

Remember when your mom was all wrinkled brow and frowns as she kisses your scraped knee? And she tells you to be careful, don't get your skin scarred again. That's what we grow up to knowing: don't get ourselves hurt.

But then we fall in love. We give our hearts to somebody just to have it broken. Whether we count that as a privilege or not doesn't matter. 'Cause in the first place, we thought they would never crush it. But for some reason, he chooses another. For some reason, she gets tired. For some reason, people leave. But for some reason, we choose to stay. 'Cause in the first place, we never thought tears would come into play. Then we promise ourselves to never love once more. But like masochists craving for self-inflicted pain, we allow our hearts to again be taken away.

More addictive than heroine
I've tried them both
Something to marvel in
Created from loath

Can't imagine the pleasure
Can't imagine the fun
Till you've tried to measure
The pain of a gun

How long are the scars?
How deep do they go?
More numerous than stars
And you'll never know

What is your poison?
What is your drug?
Mine is a razor
I watched as it dug

And none must ever know
So never let it show

I am a *******
How long can I last like this?

The most degrading of sins?
Such terrible disgust?
Or the filthiest of wins?
My only true lust

I simply need
I must concede

A total fool
A blood pool
My razor shines
My fine lines

The red glint
The strong scent
High risks received
High stakes involved
Endless pleas sung
Endless screams rung

Waiting so silent
Waiting so violent
Over the edge
Over the ledge
Right here collapsed
Right now elapsed
So far gone
So stepped on
Too much pain
Too little gain

I am the worst.

Some people would call this love; I call it masochism.