When I jab at you with a stick,

and shiver with anticipation,

I await your stinging slap,

and the sharp high that always follows.

When I arrange my words to toy with you,

and you raise your hackles-arms,

I’m rewarded with a powerful punch,

and the colorful illusions that litter my sight.

Oh but the joy,

when you press that gleaming knife,

the cold metal against my throat,

nothing is comparable, nothing is alike.