Masochist

To love you I must hate myself
You burn me to the ground
You come near and inside I cheer
You stab me for the sound
I smile and I forgive you
So you give the knife a twist
I cannot love you anymore
I’m not a masochist.

Maybe it’s too soon
It’s not really a crime.
Besides, you are so young
You’ll mature if given time.
Come back, come home, be family!
I love you still, you know.
You say, “Me, too” but do you?
It’s so hard for you to show.

No smiles from you, no hugs
No laughs and no apologies.
You don’t seem to care about me
Or about our family.
No knives…or anything I see
In your words or on your face.
I guess I should be thankful
I guess I should give you space.

I guess you just don’t care
You don’t hate, but you don’t love.
I think that I should do the same.
Here’s what I’m thinking of:
If I am kind to people
And smile at those around
I can’t be hurt and cannot hurt
No burning to the ground
If I don’t get close to people
No knives, no crying days
From a distance I can watch and know
That I am safe always

So thanks, I think, for teaching me
To keep between us always fear
And how a knife is blunted
By apathy; no tears
Can penetrate a wall that keeps
Away darkness, though not fists,
But I still feel the pain
Because I am a masochist.