Cupid shot me through the heart
and wanted to know if I was still bleeding,
so I said, Cupid, what kind of blood is this?

How many different types of arrows
can a soul be struck with? Am I still bleeding,
Cupid, my mind fired with every intertwining

sentence, limb, and breath, adapting
to every ascension and journey to the depths
of the birth canal of every wound.

Did you know that no matter how malleable
the human brain is, it will never not
have danced? Not know how to go back?

This string connecting arrows cannot be cut,
so I will cherish purity, feed the ardor,
and devote myself to what chases out the nights.

Don’t mind me, Cupid. When I am uncovered,
and my loves unveiled, we discover the limitlessness
of the barriers that cradle love, molding it

like some ethereal clay into something for which
we cannot only aim but strike, pull on the rope, and climb.
Cupid, I would choose bleeding even if you offered me wings.

first feat. in Antler Velvet Magazine