50 shades of masochism. A spectrum
that unfurls all the way from fading pink
to the dark, foreboding hues of black
and purple. It’s a badge of honor,
marks worn with pride. A label
you wear beaten into your skin. But
what if you don’t live at the edge, if
you don’t revel in a painted canvas
of welts and bruises and bloodied skin?
What if you like your pain to bloom
then fade. To take your breath away,
then give you a moment to breathe?
A handprint that says mine, enduring
for seconds then becoming a memory?
A cane or a paddle or a tawse or a whip
that makes you cry out, plead, pant and
whimper, but not bleed? Are you out
of the club? Are you not hardcore enough
to say masochist. Pain slut. To plead:
hurt me. Humble me. Turn me into
a creature who begs for your mercy.
Is it not enough to want it, to offer
your flesh as a canvas to create art?
Acrylics startle with their vibrant colors
but watercolor offers just as many shades.
And there is beauty in both, I think.