Strapped in a chair, coldest of ice
In a room where hideous monsters reside
Heaving roughly as the electricity shock me from the straps,
Despise should I have, confusion was I wrapped.

Pain and agony should it be, but why love and lust was it in me?
Have gone mad myself, was it?
Either the thousandths of knives through me
Or the mind's aftermath of voltage in repeat.

Must have been the masochistic side of me.
Now, glad I am, turning who I wanted to be,
It was out without restrict,
Getting wild I am, shivering endlessly.

Oh how beautiful it is to be loved like this.


© vitor