Masochism is An Art

I knife stripe my upper arm. Suddenly it is engulfed in pain. The dewdrops fall on the white carpet. Masking it in my peace. His eyes wander to my arm, he is fascinated, transfixed by the spectacle. I pull at the blade again, across the gash. My back bends and I can hear  the birds, my pain becomes one with the world. I feel connected, solidarity breached by the open expanses beyond. The pleasure melds so readily with the inner struggles I have always faced. I feel reborn every time the steel of the butchers knife connects with my arm. I feel my roots stretch out, I am whole. His hand reaches out and fingers the scars that criss-cross my legs, my back, my neck. My soft, feminine skin marred with the beauty that comes from the knife, the razor blade. Garden tools and kitchen implements became different to me. I see them as methods for new scars, new beauty. They are an extension of my arm, a bringer of pleasure in the pain.

A girl I knew when I was fifteen, saw the scars and her eyes lit up. She was twisted and dark inside. Her emotions were one, That emotion was a longing for self satisfaction. She took a blade and swiped me, uncaring, she did not map my veins like I did. She hurt me and her back arched too. When the blood wouldn’t stop, I would take out my kit and sew. Like a rag doll I would piece myself back together as she watched with grey, eagle eyes. Her black hair, short and jagged. She was beautiful, she smoked her cigarette in its long holder and did not care for the stares she got. Jaws would be broken if people spoke out and they knew from her sharpness. They kept their mouths closed. They watched as she pulled me into a shop by my collar. No words were spoken, quiet flooded the scene. Old women would walk to the other side of the road as we approached. They knew something ungodly was afoot but their vocabulary did not stretch to accommodate such things. She ordered me and I followed her words like religion. “Sit” “Stay”, I did not falter. I knew her for what she was and I knew the consequences for inaction. She would test my endurance, tie me into a ball with rope and then leave me in the wardrobe, go about her business, perhaps go to sleep. She’d punish me with boredom because pain was not an option. I left her and the guilt nearly drove me insane, she did not care. Her plaything was gone but she would find another, someone who would stay indefinitely and sometimes I wonder if they do a better job than me and I wince with the competition for it. I want to compete. I want to see other boys and girls like me and be the best. Break the boundaries of what they can take and rise above.

Now I am alone. I have had new  owners but they are not enough. I don’t respect them because I cannot bring myself too. They are weak, uninventive. They have enough imagination for two rounds with me, maybe three and then they fall into old patterns. “Do what I say or I’ll… I’ll …”. I laugh at them and they hit me and with that they break my focus. I laugh at them and I walk out. Some claim they can master me, then they fail. They want to please me in their dominance, they don’t want to please themselves. I should be their object but instead they cuddle into me at night so I can hear their heartbeat. They tell me they love me. That is not what I want. I want the quiet, cold of anger of them. I want them to teach me how to be pure. I want them to deny me my own needs to fuel their own desires. I don’t want them to love me, tell me I’m beautiful. I want them to use me. But they do not. That is their greatest failing.