I’m no Martyr just a masochist that loves hard, loves to be hurt by people, loves to deny myself pleasure, only straights of pain. The pain is pleasure, maybe that is all I think I deserve is pain. Sweet, lustful, break my heart into pieces pain, treat me like crap pain, walk over me like I’m nothing pain. Maybe there is pleasure in that pain. Why is that pain pleasure? Maybe it’s all I know. When your roots are made up of pain disguised as love maybe we start to think that all pain is made this way. The love we look for is some how in that box that is covered in thorns. Hands bleeding still trying to open the box that has the magical love in it. No matter what sacrifice we continue to try to find a way to open it. Hands cut up on not only on the outside but the heart is bleeds inside too. Wounds being infected by the germs in the open air. Not even feeling the pain just because we want to open this box so bad. What is love? Its never ending, it’s loving even when it’s not returned. Its masochistic, it’s loving even while you’re bleeding. It’s loving even while the knife continuously stab your back. Maybe we lovers are no martyrs maybe we are in fact masochist. One who takes pleasure in pain.