There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.
Something comforting.
It is a comfort only very damaged people understand- the tacit agreement to cause pain, and to receive it.
Pleasure is for people who have what they want.
But for those of us who are starving, ours is best peppered with suffering.
Being with someone who understands that carries its own worth-
I don't want you to make me feel good.
I couldn't stand it if you did.
I don't want you to touch me gently, or ask if I'm alright, or stop to look into my eyes.
I am starving, and so are you: I want your teeth.
I want you to make me hurt. And I want to hurt you.
I want you to hurt me because I'm not him, and I want to hurt you because you're not her.
We want to see each other suffer because we are starving and we need to feel that someone else is.
Don't hold back. I want you to lower me because I'm too good for her.
Don't love me, don't caress me. Dig your nails in. Drip candlewax on my stomach.
One step down from torture is all I can stand in the way of human connection, when it isn't her.
Punish me for looking at her like a baleful puppy tonight, even as you waited in my room with your soft skin and your sharp teeth.
There is nothing you can do that will be too violent, too brutal, too sadistic.
I don't want to be loved right now.
I am too raw.
I want to be touched. I want to be ruined. Leave marks. Smear lipstick.
Lower me because I am
Too
****
Good for her.
Let this heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs don't matter.
Help me **** it. Help me pin my demons to the bed and make them writhe, and I will do the same for you.
Let's exorcise our loves tonight and banish them to hell.
Let's tell our skin that it is irrelevant.
Let's say "*******" to the things that bind us. I will cut your heart out for him.
I will kiss your scars, not to heal them but to remind you that when you put them there you fought for something, something we both fight for now.
Hurt me. Fight her. Do it for her.
Do it for her because I'm not good enough to hurt.
Do it for her because I'm TOO good to hurt.
Crush me.
You could boil me alive and it wouldn't make up for her, so at least leave me bruised.  
I will give you what you need, and you will give me what I need: not love, but contact.
Please,
Let my heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs
Don't
Matter.

There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.

my heart ticks with the punctuated rhythm
of a girl busy with embroidery
i see a corpse and scrutinise all its secrets
it lingers with a purposeful dexterity
a tenacity that resembles autocrats
of a starved third world country
a dangerous presence that underpins
a blank prism
my reconnaissance reveals a frenetic arc
orbiting, humming as it does so
with intricate nightly returns
travels between light and shade
where black shadows tred
forming a link in the great causal chain
of human destiny
it is a place where stone ghosts welcome me
with threatening indifference of magical
incantations
i roam through deserted streets
with an inherent clumsiness
like waves on dark coastlines
that in hypnotic deception
form groups of disorientated sadness
where clouds of black crows fly around
sinister watch towers in the dark

There is struggle in every beginning.
What to write in these blank pages?

We get stuck in every white space we see
We stop in every blank space
We stare
We try to start

Words don't come easy

We struggle for ideas
We fumble for words

The thought process stops.

Catharsis.

The ideas flood our brains
The ideas pour
The brain leaks of ideas
But we struggle for structure

For there is none in these blank pages, white spaces
There is none.

We try to achieve form and flow
But there are none
All we have are fragments
of thoughts
of words

It's a stacatto of ideas.

Without rhythm
Without melody
Without harmony
For there are none in these blank pages
There are none in these white spaces

The words
are just lines
are just dots
are just strokes
that will never make sense

In these white spaces
In these blank pages

This beautiful mess.

Because he dove feet-first in a dustdevil
The ground beneath him began to give way
Those bigger whirlwinds made their presence known
As names in plastic bags and things cast off, away
Slipped out and through his palms, his own
Voice escaped his teeth, said it would hurt coming down.

She envied the bird who struggled in the wind
And turned herself into a whisp of smoke,
That spun vortical inside his lungs
Somehow, he felt overwhelmed and her
Breath shaped the clay soul they shared;
Something to be hurt, something to be spared.

Not to break apart, they took up their arms
And their peace, and their dream of circles
Over nothing felt complete, so they
Could ask if they would dance or whenever
They would fall but this moment was helpless
To answer, if there was one at all.

Among the shadows where two streets cross,
A woman lurks in the dark and waits
To move on when a policeman heaves in view.
Smiling a broken smile from a face
Painted over haggard bones and desperate eyes,
All night she offers passers-by what they will
Of her beauty wasted, body faded, claims gone,
And no takers.