Masochist

You close your eyes. 

You unclench your fists.

You resume breathing.

And your heart finally stops beating a tattoo against your ribcage.

It's all right, you tell yourself. Deep breaths. It's nothing new. You've been here before. 

The knowledge is comforting. But the words taste funny on your tongue. You imagine that's how they'd feel if you were thanking an inquisitor for torture.

You flex your fingers. There's a muted roaring in your ears as you try to ignore the throbbing in your hands. You open your eyes and look at your them - all raw and shiny. There are four little crescents in a row, where your nails bit into your palms.

A voice in your head sings. Hey. Hey. It's all okay. You know, tomorrow's another day.

You smile ruefully.

Yes. Yes, it is. Another day to play with fire.

You put the matches away. You put them away for 'another day'.
There's a throbbing in your hands.
A roaring in your head.

And a song on your lips.