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I say, I am proud to be worth beating.
Love gets irksome. Today I’ll get broken.

I say, my limbs are good strung, like stretching,
but with more gore. I say, what hurts is fun;

that quick stroke, devil gone breathless, one hand
gripping. I want bruises across my hip,

dig? With your wrist, sharp red. Let it expand
with each stroke. I say, I pray to the whip

and all metal that cleaves, carves and slices.
I want it between these ribs, push in slick,

then down. I want to hear these bones of mine
shiver, splinter, crack. Grin like a corpse’s.

What pain curses it blesses. Horrific
leads to holy; my demon to your divine.