There’s before, then after, and the bit in between, where my demons gleefully go to work. A push here, a twist there, their handiwork tenderly written in poison-laced pain,
and squalid, abject regret.
The night is no longer my friend.

I remember the times, when under cover of an ink tinged sky, I’d construct a playground from my dark. We’d languish in it’s decadence, and play a game of imagery tag.

Do to me what you see in the pictures.
Hurt me, fuck me, bend me to your will.
Make me completely and utterly yours.

But somewhere, somehow, I lost my map, and know I cannot get back there without first dealing with the now.
Except I don’t know how, I don’t know what the now is, so I’m stuck, and clinically, with purpose, I make myself alone.
An undoing here, a snip of a string there, and my demons watch, impassive, as my hope filled balloons float silently away.

I’m drowning in anger and bitterness and I welcome it, encourage it, tend to it, and feed it.
The more pain the better.
I’m a masochist.
Right?

Submissive.
I wish He’d tell me that that is simply not allowed.

He tells me He loves me, and I find a way to rebuff.
He tells me why, and I find a way to disbelieve.
How long before He gets tired of pain by return?

Hit and run, hit and run, then dodge the fragments of relationship shrapnel.
This is a move I wish I hadn’t been given the blueprints for in order to perfect.

I want to scream at Him…
Hurt me, you bastard, come on, fucking hurt me!
…but He won’t, and I love Him for it.
He is but a man, trying to make sense of this bundle of complexity, who shields and deflects and feels she is less than if she needs His help.

I want to go back to Him,
but I don’t know the way,
and even if I did,
I fear the door,
on arrival,
will be shut.
It won’t be,
but,
what if it is?
What then?
Pain,
more than I can handle.
Ha! Not much of a masochist, then, are you?

The one thing I want to not fuck up,
is the one thing I’m doing my best to destroy.

Hatred, of self, begins to occupy more space,
guilt and fear and sadness it’s companion.

So I lie under cover of
He’ll walk away
and try to be mindful of
It’ll Get Better.

It has to get better, it will get better…

Right?