I don't feel pain — I write them.
From the mouth of a masochist, to the mind of a sadist.
I craft torment like it's scripture,
Holy scars in every picture.
I was the victim — now I play priest,
Feeding darkness, piece by piece.
I don't cry — I compose screams,
Make lullabies out of shattered dreams.
Your agony is art to me,
A gallery of your exposed weaknesses.
So bleed your truths onto my page,
I'll ink them in eternal rage —
And call it healing by another name.