I choose to walk on the bed of knives,

Than on the bed of roses beside me.

Maybe because I've walked on it for so long,

Lathered the knives with so much blood,

That I'm afraid of the slightest change-

Change, from cruelty to subtlety.

Or maybe I choose the knives

Because they hurt upfront.

Unlike the seductive roses,

Carefully hiding their thorns

To strike hardest when I trust them the most.

Maybe monotonous, continuous suffering

Is better than brief stabs of unbearable pain.

Or maybe the knives

Fit the lacerations on my feet

Better than the roses and their thorns ever will.

At least when the knives kill me,

I'll know that they never broke my trust.

~