Why, how good pain does feel,

Though the wounds may never heal.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Oh, how relishing it is when over my skin, the knife is held,

And crimson rivulets, like tears, are shed.

When the blade tears through my skin and into my flesh,

The pain and pleasure always seem afresh.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

And when I use my finger to draw pictures on the wall,

The ink isn't paint at all,

The scarlet colour of the paint,

Could only scream one thing 'pain'.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Bandages wrapped around my wrists all day,

I shrug and just say 'that's my way'.

Masochist, they say,

All I reply is 'Have a nice day.'

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

I don't think people will understand

Until they've experienced this delight firsthand.