A/N: This is just a little piece I came up with after an argument I had. There's no real love in it; it's not a true romance; it's more about need.
I knew I shouldn't have come here, but I needed this.
I needed the release.
The release from my anger, my pain, myself.
It always hurt; it was never gentle.
The little knife he carries around in his pocket always comes out and I leave with my clothes hiding hundreds of little red ribbons all over my body.
By the time I get home, they've stained my clothes.
Sometimes I think I'm better than this, better than him, not needing the pain, the cuts, but then I realize I can't live without the scars he gives me on my skin.
Because every time he sees me naked, just before he goes in with the knife again, he admires every scar; ever y little pale bump on my skin, every scabbed line, every single mark.
I like to think he's admiring me; my body, but I know deep down that he's just admiring his handiwork.
Then it occurs to me how truly twisted I am to be in a relationship with a man as crazy as the Joker. After a while, it becomes that the only time it feels good is when the knife is flashing and the blood is flowing.
He's never angry with me as long as I don't try and keep him from having his fun. The cuts are his paintbrush lines, the bruises his colours to fill in the shapes.
I need him in my life.
He's opened my eyes to true pain; a true way to transcend the everyday madness of the world.
I'm just one twisted, broken canvas for him to draw on, and the only thing I fear is the day when there is no more space left for him to work.
(PS: I haven't abandoned my other stuff.)