i will never be

                              enough

 

all i do is

hurt.

          I hurt. I can’t stop hurting.

so i hurt more

and more

and m o r e

to make the pain stop.

 

i hurt until

my dull

weak

scar-ridden flesh

is raw once more;

stained black and blue in

masochistic penance

 

my own brand of self-love

 

bleeding

pleading

seething

until the emotion stops

til the ichor dries and

leaves me empty

 

 

empty and

free.

 

This is contentment.

(and i wonder if

this is real.)