Wound Me

This logical hand slices fast, cutting the air as sword 
to catch Cupid’s arrow, coming near, arcing here toward. 
With a grasp I clutch, relieved, upon the loving dart 
before it rends a wicked path directly to my heart. 

For I don’t wish a flight of fancy to control affection, 
when it could be in the hands of this vision of perfection.  
So this piercing weapon of love to you, my dear, I give. 
Puncture my dead heart therewith and prove that I yet live. 

Feelings bleeding, buckled, kneeling - Love’s red ink it flows. 
and the more I bleed, as time does pass, the more my love it grows. 
Pierce me, wound me I care not, for this aching is a pleasure. 
The arrow of Cupid that you wield is no weapon, but a treasure. 

And when I am done bleeding and my veins are purged and sure, 
you shall find the purest essence laying in the puddled floor. 
My soul, my love, my passion, my being - and that I give to you. 
To hold in your trusting arms as our future does ensue.