The poem: Masochist (2026)

I’ve come to realize I’m drawn to pain in a way that feels like longing. What I crave most isn’t physical pleasure—it’s deep, raw intimacy. I want someone to see me and pour every bit of their emotion into my body and mind. The thought of being struck excites me more than any surface-level sensation. When a fist meets my skin, it’s like an emotional eruption—tiny explosions beneath the surface, like orgasms traveling through my veins. The ache settles into a warm, tingling hum that lingers like a secret. Bruises bloom across me like purple and red flowers, each one a testament to something real. But the hits were never sexual or romantic—they were something else entirely. Just not on my face. Never there.