Masochist

It was like kind of weird in the starting, when I realised that, I liked not the happiness, but the pain.

For I have always admired not a sunlit day in a winter or a fine spring day, but a dark sky in rain.

I got a prodigious satisfaction, ineffable contentment, every time I scratched myself.

And if I delineate about this to anyone, I was perceived not as normal as they are for themselves.

Blessings? Good days? Being loved? Oh no. I fear them.

Curses? Negligence? Frustration? Disappointments? Yes. They are my best of friends.

What it means to be a Masochist, one can not outline it to others, for no one will never, ever, ever be able to envisage.

For we hurt our ownselves and we enjoy grief, remorse, ache, pain and rage.

There were times when I danced, I played, I built sand castles, I socialized, I dressed up my barbie dolls.

Unexpected Circumstances broke me apart, for I couldn't withstand all those pains, those rejections, those seclusions, as courageously as faced by them all.

For the hero of my life would not be like Romeo, but a Sadist man.

Oh how I wished to go back to the life where I can write beautiful poems, and not like this, with a coloured pen.

For I don't have hope for anyone to come and take me out of this dark world that I chose for me.

I have come so far in this unlighted cave, that I now fear that, exposing to sunlight will be fatal for me.