A Different Kind of Poem
By Shortgoth

I'm bored and I don't want to talk.
I don't want to read, I just want to bleed.
I want you to take me, to rip off my shirt,
to stand behind me with a blade in your hand.
To trace the blade down my chest, my stomach,
my thighs, my back, my shoulders, everywhere
I want it so bad, I'm trembling with desire.
I have crimson edged dreams spiked with the spark of submission.
I want to revel in the ecstasy of pain, I want to cover myself in blood.
I want you to lick it off.  Slowly.  Sensually.  Seductively.
I want you to dig the blade in deep, to see the thick red liquid well up,
to lick it. Suck it.  Bite the wound.  Encourage the stream of blood.
Rip my flesh asunder, shred my frail body.  Brilliant crimson on a backdrop
of pale flesh, just yearning to be cut, use the steel-tipped flogger, the whip,
the knife, the scalpel, tease me with pain and capture me with agony.
I'm the lure for the blood drinker.  The worm on the hook.  I'm
carnivore bait in all but name.  The temptation, the treat, the pet,
the one that gives all.