Bed of Nails

Falling back on a bed of nails
For the comfort I thought I'd lost.
The longing is there, the lust prevails
at an ever-increasing cost.

A crutch, in place of what might well be
a bed of feathers, or silk, or down.
A wreath of thorns where one might see
a halo, a headdress, a crown.

Why, then, this bed of nails
I share with you tonight?
Isn't this fallacy painful enough
than the torture and bleeding and fright?

To hold your nails dear
til my flesh starts to bleed,
And feel your feigned warmth one more night
Is simpler now than turning back,
repenting, evading my next self-attack
So here I stay, bleeding black,
My muscles cold and stinging and tight.