Mercy

My life is like our game of Mercy.

You grab on to my hands, and I can't tell whether it's just for the fun of it, or if it's just your excuse to touch some part of me.

You bend back my fingers, and I'm not sure if you'd rather break a more valuable piece of me.

Though completely and utterly pitiful under your gaze, my heart seems to beat only for the physical pain you cause, bringing sick love with your hostility.

I cry out, 'Mercy! Mercy!', but you are merciless, gaining pleasure out of this twisted cycle.

All the while, though, I cannot help but love you.

Stupid? Yes.

Ridiculous? Yes.

Life without you? Never.

And that is why, even as my joints and limbs ache from the pressure of you,

I delude myself into believing you, trusting you, whenever you hold out your hand to me and ask to play a game.

It is a trap. Of course. I know.

But somehow, I find pleasure in this pain, feeling my heart punching against my ribs and my fingers stretching beyond their limits.

I will play this game of Mercy until the end, until I win.

And only then will I become just as twisted as you are.





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