Lounge Act

We are like a cheap lounge-act,

We are here for the amusement of others,

They are worked into a frenzy,

By the pain we put ourselves through,

The slicing of skin,

And the way a bead of blood wells up on a scar and flows,

Makes them mad with lust for us,

And if we dare to break a vein,

We form a fan club in seconds,

The Slit-Wrist Club,

Blades interwoven between fingers,

Nails long, red-painted, caked with blood,

We drive pins into our skin,

The crowd won't stop 'til they see blood,

Sometimes we throw them our weaponry,

Or a blood-sprinkled hankerchief,

They fight and tear each other to pieces,

For some pain-memorabelia,

They are monsters,

We are just masochists,

Which do you hate more?


The End

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