I spent my entire life covered in bruises
and they never made me feel pretty
but your grip on my waist was always different
the way you would drag me from one side of the bed to the other
five fingers wrapped up in my hair
and the other five around my neck
breathing i love you in my ear over and over again
your teeth on my shoulder bone
your lips on my spine over and over
and over again
the way you pinned my wrists over my head and dug them into the mattress
so that I could look into your eyes when i told you
that i loved you more
the black leather belt you used sparingly
when I would look at myself in the mirror after I felt pretty
I've gotten attached to those lesions and bruises
the way you cleaned them in the shower so gently
and wrapped them in your soft cotton t-shirts
I use to ask you to hit me harder
but I think I found my limit in you leaving
that hit has left me broken for longer than any bone would take to heal
YOU ARE READING
MASOCHISM
Poetryan uncensored synposis of the thoughts and experiences belonging to a young tired masochist. I quit writing for a while but sometimes I feel I need to write more than I need a cigarette.
