Someone decked James in the face.
His lip broke. He tasted punch.
He liked it. Put a sock over his
right hand, attached a few tacks,
sharp ends protruding, cutting the air.
People asked what it was for.
Gave himself a good personal assault.
Did this when he hated himself,
or for the fun of it.
He also didn't mind when a
friend took a swing at his jaw, or flesh.
He'd look in the mirror and see recent
blood holes on his cheeks, and some scabs.
Bruised skin around the eyes.
Forehead scratched, skinned nose.
He'd smile at his work,
laugh at his chipped teeth and soul.
This masochism thrilled him.
It wasn't a chasm.
He liked his fist under spasm.
Some people in white coats
came to him. He splashed some red on them.
They splashed a tranquilizer.
Took off his shoes in a barren room,
strapped him down.
They told him he had to stop before he
He told them they just needed to let him keep
hurting himself. He didn't see what
was so wrong with
it, when the norm was
people suffocating their knuckles with hatred.