Hurt Me For You
Power is the gift that puts pleasure in pain
In the house of my psyche, she resides below ground level. Down in the deepest cellar, in her soft-furnished boudoir she sprawls across a four-poster bed, naked and tousle-haired and ready for mischief. Across her skin are scrawled the scars of a hundred lessons imperfectly-learned; crossed-out names and instructions ignored. She’ll flaunt them with insouciance, they are a challenge and a come-on. “Can’t catch me” they mock silently; and “is that all you’ve got?”.