Empty Feelings

And then I plunged the dagger deep inside my heart because I crave the way it hurts.

Pain can be addicting.
Mentally, physically, internally.

I must love the way that knife feels with it's jagged edge, sliding deeper and deeper into my fragile skin because I keep on going back for more. Seems as though nothing must satisfy me more than that electric shock when I stick my wetted fingertip into the open socket. Zap. It's electrifying and I dream of it in my sleep. I wake up and I put my face against that scalding hot oven, because nothing is ever enough.

I've become so used to feeling nothing, that when given the opportunity to feel something, anything, I leap at it like a malnourished dog finding the scraps of a t-bone in the garbage bag on the deserted curb.

I'm never satisfied. I want to feel more; I want to feel it in my skin, making its way through my veins, traveling all the way to my bones.

Scare me, care for me, strip me to my bare skin and make me feel something.

I feel nothing.