Masochist Pray

It’s not the blood that I want.

It’s you.
Piercing though my skin.
Slowly.
Methodically.
Exposing my insides.

Requiring my stillness,
my endurance.
As you carve at my flesh.

I feel you penetrate me.
Deeper.
Until the sound dulls.
And the world fades.
And the pain melts.

And all I can feel is you.
And my breath.
And the blade.
And the warmth as it starts to escape.
Trickling down my sides.

But I don’t want the blood.

I want the butcher.
The surgeon.

Stripping me of everything.
Revealing my vulnerability.

Piercing me.
Marking me.
Lacerating me.

I want to be left agape.
Vile. Peeled. Bare.

Only a pile…
of flesh
and bone
and lard
and filth.

Bloody.
Needy.
Desperate.
Wounded.

Until you are ready.
to fix me again.