Sunshine

He who makes a beast out of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man - Samuel Johnson

Meloncholic,

addicted to his gut-wrenching
torture,
she spends her days sitting
upon stacks of books she'll never read.
She will wash his feet in the blood
of her own pathetic
self-pity.

They feed
off of their own flesh,
revolting yet tantalizing.
With each tear of her once-whole
skin
She regurgitates a thin piece of string,
a rope that is tied to the ravaged
pieces of her guilt,
run through by the thick lance
of impression.

Her feelings for him are stewed
in the cast-iron pot of manipulation
and when he's finished devouring her mentality
she is left to scrape the remnants of herself
from the bottom of that pot.

Her body is christened with bruises and blood,
brought on only by herself as she throws
herself to the feet of her captor,
gazing through a jagged drape that is her hair
at his dashing brutality and many pages of lust
that wash through her with a searing white pain
Self-immolating her every inch.

She is trapped in her own mindset;
shackled by the iron chains of intimidation
to thin skull walls,
convulsing,
screaming as they fuck
not quite rape but not consensual
and she wonders to herself,
if it were she that had unlocked the doors
and by doing so begged this intruder to visit
to torture,
burn,
tear
at her teddy-bear soul?