Sunrise to sunset, I hear the lies you tell me —
the doubt, the hatred, the fear.
Will you ever cease your whispers?
Will I ever be at peace?
Why do you enjoy torturing me so?
How weary I grow
of fighting you;
of listening to you scream endlessly;
of believing you.
Confidence? I have none.
Courage? May as well call me "cowardly."
Self-worth? As fickle as a politician.
You are never satisfied;
you always find a new way to inflict pain.
The saddest part?
I start to enjoy it, enjoy the pain;
I revel in it;
I validate myself with it;
I crave it;
I am lost without it.
For the pain is me
I am nothing without it —
blank and confused and lost.
We are soulmates, you and I;
eternally bonded, it seems, until the day I die.
Who will you haunt once I am gone?
Who will your next victim be?
Whose soul will you devour after you've taken mine?
Some days, I swear you've left me,
but then you come back ten times as strong, and I
crumble to dust
like the temples in Athens.
My eroded soul forgets itself —
forgets all else but you.
That is what you want, is it not?
You sick fuck.
My twisted, tired mind copes with
drink,
sleep,
food,
orgasms,
blood.
I hurt myself to ignore you;
if I can at least, for the briefest of times, become deaf to you,
I will indugle.
Do not think, however, that I will sabotage my future
for you.
But at night I hear you whisper,
my thoughts melding with your words:
"I enjoy the sting of the blade, if at least the
pain in my heart will at last abate.
So sharpen your knife, darling,
I need to bleed."
