The Masochist (poem)

[Revised version]

Original written on: 5/12/19 7:08 pm

Double ring, all rusted and crooked
Edges run along the skin, delicate
Her cold hands, jolted
Veins like the broken circuit

She loved the sense of muscles tense
Movement causing slow pain
Her expressions in a pretense
The yelling was abrupt but silent, flesh in blain

But what can't be physically felt
Was more intriguing than the blood
The torture of one's mind, very heartfelt
The horrifying images, jabbed in like a stud

Blood infested gore was a show
Imprinted projections did not matter
It stuck with her like a bonded crow
All embedded like an amber

And there she sits, at home
Writes broken poems, all alone
The tiny room was her catacomb
Her life lies motionless, like a gravestone