A massacre pardoned

conjures up genocides. 

I am cursed by this

forgiving nature; 

it corrodes me. 

Had you shot me 

with silver bullets,

I would still kiss

your smoking gun.

Violence, like yours,

should not be forgot.

But somehow, my head

always turns to ignore it.

As though, looking away

negates its existence. 

I could be between

your sharp teeth,

and convince myself

you did not mean it.

To say I am naive 

is an understatement.

Not even a fool

could be so dense.

Like a masochist,

I return for a second helping

of your appetizing abuse,

then still come to your defense.

I swallow every bite,

savouring the taste as I chew.

No excuse too contrived

when I sacrifice myself

for your illness.

Now I burn at the stake

for crimes I did not commit.

My only regret remains

in believing you were innocent.