Pain is Comforting

There is a strange sort of comfort

In knowing I am lost

In knowing God has forsaken me like the Archangel,

The devil Lucifer with His tantalizing spells

And the brutal honesty in which His followers thirst for

Like the crazed waif in the desert who begs for life and death

Simultaneously.

To say you killed me would be a crude understatement,

Because it wasn't murder, wasn't you

Drawing the obsidian blade from its silver sheath

To plunge it into the fleshy folds of my ribs,

My shuddering heart,

My gasping, writhing, bleeding organs.

It wasn't you tugging our bodies together to kiss me,

Your "unconditional love" seeping into me like poison

As your razor-sharp nails dig false promises into my abdomen

So that the broken flesh peels back to reveal

The startling emptiness you left behind.

You didn't kill me, not physically,

Because my adolescent body still grows as the sun rises and sets.

But my mind, you have inhaled and devoured each and every individual thought

Leaving my mind a hollow asylum where long-lost memories flicker

And later, fade to a bone-crushing nothingness.

And my emotions, those simple and complex things

That humanity has abandoned through time—

You have raped them

Raped them horribly, relentlessly, painfully

Until I could no longer cry, no longer scream, no longer speak

Only dream of the hatred inside me,

Spawned of my past dependence, now broken, on the

Façade you so skillfully wove from latex smiles and sweet nothings.

There is a strange sort of comfort

In knowing I am insignificant, a mere thirst-store trinket

To be bought and sold and bought and sold,

The glue which holds me together dissolving,

So that I am an ugly, flawed creature

Of smudged porcelain and rotting satin.

There is a strange sort of comfort

In knowing that I have been broken beyond repair,

And you can no longer hurt me

Like you have countless times before.