Massacre.

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.