The Masochist's Log

My body is a blank canvas and my blood I use as ink
I cut and carve and slice and tear
And infection begins to give off its stink.

I sew barbed wire into each wrist's vein
It coils inside and rips out of the flesh
But my nerves don't want me to feel this pain.

So I carry on disfiguring, break bones and fillet skin
And I look upon my work of art
As my blood, it still runs thin.

And now I look a monster, beaten harshly, badly scarred
Yet I seem to forget why I ever started
And why they cried so hard

My family and friends had seen brutality of some kind
Like bodies on the internet, videos and so on
But had never imagined the horror caused by a soul beginning to unwind

Rhythmical torture and self-hatred on the agenda of the day
It's nothing new to me by now, the state I'm in it shows
And still the mental pain it stays and never goes away.