A short poem, I will happily C4C.

I want to be into biting,
Taking harsh relief from passionate punishment, transcending pain to pure pleasure.
Pain and love are natural partners
(or so I've been told).

But I'm not
And despite my best efforts,
My faked moans and
dispassionate enthusiasm,
I can't even pretend to be.
It hurts and I
can't take it.
Pain just isn't my thing.

Like a puppy I've been nurtured,
Like a poppy I have grown
Like a puppet; I've been held up upon strings,
My feet barely touching the earth I have never come down to.

And, like a puppet, all my worries and first-world fears
Are mere constructs.

There is nothing poetic about an
Unused nuclear bunker
Or a empty snail shell.
It's what's on the inside
That flows
out the proverbial quill. And so

I tear myself apart just to see what it feels like to be in pieces,

And that's as close as I ever want to get.