words by dominic riccitello

grasping the bed
i descend to a place
of otherworldliness 
voices and heads
which spin instead of set
i wade through the sea
of the secrets in my mind
frolicking to
yet running from
i say godsend
but we knew what satan said
running through motions
darkness and a void devotion
towards things which hurt instead of mend
i spoke his name with a backwards lisp
greeting hate and transitioning words
into things i loved
rubbing lemons where it hurt
sipping sugar where it burned
they call it a masochist
because i yearn for his hurt