The Masochist

Our love fits the exact image of toasted bread. I’m always the side smeared in butter, dropped onto dirty kitchen floors, whilst you balance untouched.

I feel I can shout enough to fill a lifetime of pointless arguments, but you’ll still refuse to wave the white flag.

Picking scabs of self-doubt from every inch of my body, you are a mirror only reflecting my bad traits.

I’ve never cried so much than I have this past year,

And every day I lose another gallon.

I wish you loved me enough to stop the pain.

I wish the site of me so hurt, would stop you ever being the cause again.

I miss yet another bus for you and I come to the conclusion that I’m a masochist.

You could do anything to harm me, knowing nothing was harsh enough to battle forgiveness.

There are moments, where I wonder, what’s the fun in being with someone you hate so much?

Why don’t you just leave me? Find someone else who actually enjoys this sort of twisted fun.

I tore out my heart for you, fed it to you on a silver platter. Drowning myself in so much depression, I bleed teardrops until I choke.

I wish you would stop caring so much about your self-image, I wish you cared enough about me to know:

When you put others before me, it hurts. When you disrespect my existence and efforts, it hurts. When you put yourself first and I hurl in front of anything for you, it hurts. 

I wish you would be my hero; one girl in this world has to be worthy enough to be saved.

Even just one time, but you’d leave me, gasping for my last breath.

The site of me tipping off the edge would never make you flinch.

And it’s such a shame you would choose anyone over me.

When I spend eternity, doing anything and everything to keep you safe and happy.