I no longer go numb.
I've descended from masochists.
I wait for you, the sadist
with a poisonous kiss, if possible.
Because of the sorrow, I cannot see virtue.
You're just like the end*.
I bury the memory so you won't notice
just like in the beginning.
Even if the clock runs backwards,
the sin committed won't return.
My first and last
sympathizer burns.
You look at me with disgust,
both strongly and softly.
The decision reached against my will
is something I'll never be able to tell you.
The creaking sound of leather is painful.
Let's make the wounds deeper.
Deeply jealous, you are
always cold-blooded.
The abuse from my childhood
is something I don't want to forget, even now.
Why isn't Mother around?
Tell me.
Ah, someday I'll become aware of kindness
inside the cradle that has become my mother.
Because of the bitterness, I cannot look forward
just like the end of me.
I try so you won't catch on to anything
just like the beginning.
Even if the clock runs backwards,
the sin committed won't return.
My first and last
sympathizer is broken.
Were you too kind to me, I wonder?
My old trauma is reflected.
I, who has broken even the last you,
am I a sadist?
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We are prisoners of our own desires.
Well.... I-I did not actually wished to do this. But my friend said I should keep my poems in here . Since most of them are in paper and tend to get lost .
Technically this is just a place were my old and new poems shall reside.
Just to answer
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