A Love-Hate Relationship

I have very mixed feelings on the subject of pain. Sometimes I love it, I want to be hurt until I can't take any more. And sometimes if you try and spank me with a feather duster I'll whine and bitch at you until you give up. Sometimes it brings me closer to a person, sometimes it makes it clear that I should keep my distance. Sometimes it makes me grouchy, which is awful, but at other times it can break me down to such a pure and perfect state of being that the tears that roll down my cheeks are ones of happiness as well as pain. 

Sometimes I crave pain. Times like now, when tears of sorrow, or of anger threaten to fall, I wish for the cleansing, healing tears borne of physical suffering, of taking pain because I asked for it, and I know that the person giving it is doing so because I asked, and they care enough about me to give me what they know I need. I want pain now. I want to struggle to breathe because there's a heavy black boot on my throat, and the point of a knife is stroking my face. I want to be beaten until tears wash down my face and beyond, into the space of calm which follows tears and shrieks, the place where pain is beautiful, and peaceful, and you know that you are indestructible. I want to be the object of someone's undiluted rage, there only because they need a target and they need to see her break. I want pain at the hands of someone I love, or care for. I crave it. I need it. And it scares me a little, just how much.