Twisted Pleasure

BY

T A A H I R   K A M A L   C H A G A N

Perhaps I was hurt too much when I was younger.
After all those battles hardened me,
It became a kind of game to me:
I felt I always had to win.

Perhaps, now, I love the thrill of conquering them.
The twisted pleasure from knowing that,
On lonely nights under the stars,
They cry for me.

The feeling of dominating them.
The twisted pleasure from knowing that,
On cold nights next to the fire,
They’d die for me.

Perhaps I love ending it at the height of things,
Vanishing when her heart is mine.
Yearning for the twisted pleasure anew,
Hurting her in the process,
Hurting myself too.


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