The Self-Tormentor by Charles Baudelaire (It also has some Frenchy name that I can't remember and can't be bothered to spell)

This isn't the real poem (duh. give Baudelaire some credit. He may have been a cheap drunk and a leeching son, but he was a pretty good poet). It's just my interpretation of other people's interpretation (since the original is in French some of the translations just make hell with the actual meaning anyway).

I want to hurt you, without anger,without hate;
I want to taste your love and lust;
your fear as you face
a cruel and taunting master

Will you cry for me
and relieve my empty wasteland,
feed my barren desires
with the salt waters of your heart.

I will cherish each forced drop,
until my self is drowning
to the sound of your cries.
I cannot release you.

Am I not a freak,
an uncanny being.
Pity me, hold me, love me,
I am the victim of God's irony.

I hear his Fury, shrill in my ear,
poison in my dancing blood.
The mirror speaks to me
with the face of forgotten mistakes.

I am the knife that carvesmy flesh,
The beautiful death, and decay within,
I am the torturer who feels the pain,
I am the victim and the sin.

I am the vampire of my own heart,
I stand outside of humanity.
Without joy, without hope,
damned to eternal laughter.