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The Secret Lives of Masochists

by Aaron Blair

You want what I want,
and I am some cracked

porcelain goddess, highest
of the broken kind. You

supplicate yourself to me,
for love, and I know nothing

if not how to take advantage.
Still, only human, you choose

your boundaries, fastidious
as a wintering ant, a drone.

Set to mine the earth between
too far and not far enough,

you ponder the rules of
agression as they apply

to love. This sort of pain is
foreign to you, dishonorable.

You can't imagine your palm, the
way it would strike my face, like

lightning, nor will you be a daring
enough creature to wantonly straddle

that blurry line. So I coerce you,
knowing by morning you will gaze

upon the bruises that the pursuit
of rough magic have left on me,

and guilt will come to you, gnawing.
I will push you, naked, into the

wilderness, leave you open to its bite.
I will not hear of it, that these tasks

eat away at you. I know your heart.
Your hands will do as I ask them to.

03/09/2004

Author's Note: Writing.com slam poem. The prompt was boundaries, and I decided to go with sexual ones.

Posted on 03/11/2004
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Meghan Helmich on 08/25/11 at 12:10 PM

This is eerily like a dream I had last night.

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