A Masochist's Dance I: Stitches

I remember the taste of swallowing sharp needles
Thin and holed like the ones you'd use to sew
Although they weren't attached to any thread
Although they could only rip and tear to shreds
The blood that poured in the back of my throat
Thick and metallic as my mouth made to vomit
Creeping downwards all the way to the stomach
Poking at the acidic tissues that couldn't digest
I held onto my fragile form and hoped for the past to be undone
I prayed at the winter nights for spring to come around
I begged a timid warmth to well up inside my heart
But the only insides I had were being pulled inwards
Tied into knots then stabbed through in a loop
No matter the pain, I needed to endure
For that was the only meal I could afford
And I was starving

If I dip the tip of the needles in poison, I thought,
Would it numb the injuries running down my esophagus?
Could I move on with my days and shower in scented warmth?
Enjoy the satisfaction of safety within my home?
And so I dipped, and so I numbed, and so I could eat
My hunger was satisfied, my life full of bliss
But the water in the tub would never stop being cold
But life going on would just be an illusion, a trick of the hurt
For that meal, even drenched in cyanide and lidocaine, has been swallowed
And I still need to shit it out