I said the words, put the knife in your hand,
Hell, I even poked where you're soft, if only to enrage you.
Is it wrong that every cut you gave me tonight made me smile?
Feeling something after the abyss of separation was rain to my drought.
And every subsequent scar is making a collage of memories,
Tattooing a cryptograph on my skin that only you and I know the key for,
You'll ask me why one day,
Why would I provoke such atrocity,
Why would I want you upset,
Why on Earth would I ask you to hurt me?
The answer, of course, is in my scars.
You wanted to strip me of the will to fight back,
Hit me hard enough to make me cry like you'd seen a dozen times,
Cut me so deep that I'd recoil in pain, or lose that limb,
You struck with surgical precision, knowing where it hurt the most,
And I still haven't caved. I still haven't cried.
Would you like to know why?
Can you still not see?
As sad as it is to realize,
No one ever hurts the ones they don't care about.
No one slashes over and over, and over, at the same thing,
Without something they feel to drive them.
Even if I drew your hate, I can sleep on that...
Like always, sleep is overtaking me before I can finish... I'll see what I can conjure later.