The irony is not lost on me that pain makes my life whole, that from it’s receipt and endurance I derive immense pleasure. The endorphin high delightfully complex as my flesh bears witness to His exacting dominance.
I ask for this pain, request it
from Him.
Make plain my ultimate desire.
And when He answers, when He strikes me
to give me what I want,
I’m free of it’s hefty burden.

But pain is duplicitous, it takes advantage of a body, my body,
weak.
Exploiting, deceiving, enslaving me.
For what purpose I have no clue.
The tenacity of it’s endeavour is frightening, and from it I have no respite, save for a chemical barrier temporary in construction, shored up defenses buckling under the weight of the relentless onslaught.

Around me, people detect it’s familiar trace.
Sympathy, empathy, pity becomes me.
They wish they could do more to help.

My body tries to rally.
You’re a masochist,
it tells me,
you know you can handle this as it sends a depleted army of endorphins to my aid.
I smile wryly at it’s innocence, wrapped, wide eyed, in a cute, naive shell.

Pain makes me wither, I become
someone else.
Tired, defeated, drained of vitality, spirit cruelly subdued,
I feel no longer
His.
How can I be when my reflection is not my own, and I am completely overwhelmed?

I bathe myself in resentment, feel anger caress my skin.
I welcome it, it brings me focus, distorted clarity on which to cling.

Thoughts reverberate on an endless loop.
He never signed up for this.

I hold Him,
purposefully,
at arms length to give Him a headstart should He wish to escape.

I map a route, unblocked, without hurdles, unmarred by guilt, and scrawl in bold letters,
This way out.

I hide it in plain sight,
yet I fear the day He finds, then desires to traverse it.

Pain alters this visage I wear,
makes of it a mask crude and ugly,
This is not me!

I hate this version of self I unwittingly project when pain’s icy grip takes hold.

In this state I am neither dead, nor alive.
I’m simply a ghost with a beating heart.