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The Masochist
Fingerprints have become bruises
Along the delicacy of your kneck;
His hands the weapon
But his jealousy the culprit.
Still, you close your eyes
So you do not have to look.
He fills his grips with your soft hair,
And drags you through the carpet;
But you do not try to break free.
You hang there limp with an empty stare,
Like a lifeless doll that does not blink.
He stones you in your sleep,
Firing boulders at your head;
Blood drips and blinds your eyes.
Perhaps that's why you cannot see the beast
That hands you roses of razorblade.
He kisses your blue lips,
Eyes a sea of black saphire.
On the ocean floor of those gems
Is a ship that never sailed;
His love the barbwire around his sea.
Words are chiseled to darts,
Piercing through your paper smile.
Vows a decayed rose flooded in your water.
You sold your soul to him,
But he will never be yours.
You did this to yourself
When you unpacked his bags
And washed his feet with your hair.
He is your gun, your ticking grenade;
Not murder, but suicide.
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This poem is inspired by the unfortunate truths of love and relationships.