Crimson Ink 2 Poem by Cat Singh

Three years ago, I wrote a poem
about wanting someone to hurt me.
I wanted my pain to fill me
and break open my top
like a cup being filled at the faucet
of a dark kitchen
when you do not want to turn on the lights
for fear of waking someone in another room,
when you cannot see the cup's limits
and your hand gets drenched with your drink
before you take a few sips,
wipe the water on your pajama pants,
and head back to bed.

I hurt myself and wanted so badly
to be broken enough for someone to fix me.
"If it ain't broke, don't fix it."
"Leave well enough alone."
I was always just well enough,
always held together tight enough
that no one bothered to notice
how close I was to coming loose.

There years ago, I wrote a poem:
"The girls in the movies get beat so hard:
their hair pulled out in fists,
pussies bleeding,
burn scars below their breasts,
bloody cut marks on plush pink faces,
penetration through body and mind and spirit
like they are nothing but blow-up dolls
and punching bags."

I didn't realize that I was already one of them.
You hurt someone for long enough, and eventually,
they do not even know they are being hurt.
You hurt someone for long enough,
and they start to call it home.