You take the shards of yourself

and run them across my face. 

the placid, frozen-smile, carefully in place

Happy. So happy. You cut me 

You don't wait around, to watch me bleed. 

You don't care, you wouldn't dare 

I look after you, and know I should run 

Back to you, I wanna run back to you

I feel it, I feel it. 

Broken people cut me

and sometimes I like it. 

Broken people cut me

and sometimes I like it. 

You drag your words, across my tongue

I know I ought to turn and run, 

You cut away the fake 

Broken people cut me. And sometimes, 

I like it. 

I feel it.

Deeply. 

Am I an emptional maschochist?

How can joy compare?

It's not as sharp. You can't

cut me with a spoon

You need the thin, razor edge

to bleed.

Feeling something

is better than feeling nothing.