Masochist

Ours is an old one, deep and open for most of our lives. Absence begins the healing process but your hand on mine sends a scalpel straight through my skin as if it were white hot light cutting through the frozen deep. And it hurts so good I wish the pain of you was constant. Days gone by you'll never forget and I can never share salt the wound. All that I wanted was to be there for you and for you to let me. Here holding my breath I spill it out in words to a void because to you they fall on deaf ears. Hurt in such a way I'll always be afflicted. And over time a battle scar of us. Dressed in pride and swollen with ego. We aren't there any more, in the hurt. But the freshness of the memory remains. It knocks me to my knees and claims my strength. Id do it all over again.