Empty as the tank of gas in the driveway; dry and cold it waits. Eagar for use yet no one to try; it sits.
Like that tank; her soul is empty. Waiting for Master to come and use us once again, she is stagnant as a pond in late summer; algae consuming its mirror green surface.
Perpetual stillness; she is the snow. Silent as a stork, this person kneels in anticipation of the days new adventures. What is your wish Master.
Rejection, emotionally scarred she opens her chest. A Masochist waiting for her dose of the best medicine. Her Master, five days silent she wonders. This train of thought that only holds passengers of the heart, and all of them are screaming for this ride to end; they cannot take the pain.
Yet, she is a Masochist, she is the conductor as her brain is on fire and her heart in on ice.
She waits.
Sick as she; hoping that soon she will know if this day is the day her Master will call for her.
Or if she is still a Masochist.
Waiting for the pain of rejection, the pain of loneliness. She is still. Silent as a thought and beautiful as a statue; she kneels.
Because she is a Masochist. She lives for the pain, for the joy she gets when Master turns her way is the balm that she needs to survive. Her Master; her heart and soul he holds.
So she is a Masochist, waiting for her Master to return with her soul, she thrives in the pain. Life for the cuts, and celebrates the lashing. Red hot welts like chainmail.
She is a Masochist.
-Pandaish