thin, thin lines...

there is a line      
where desperation peers into      
the clear abyss before it      
where the lost self      
whirling from erotic storms gone rogue      
implore the weakest shred of being to hump
and cling no more to dignity      
or save face being anything but a quivering mess      
and though that dive into helplessness      
will be dependent upon mercy forevermore      
one still chooses their own demise      
in hope that the palm of cruelty so eagerly courted      
will still fondle its arousal      
and tend to its constant torment      
for the full occupation of wanting     
is more luring than the luxury of being allowed a choice