I’m shooting from the heart,
Cupid’s hanging off my shoulder,
reloading his bow, aimed directly
at you.
For this love isn’t superficial—
it cuts deep, drawing your blood,
preparing a stretched canvas
where you’re the muse.
Let every crimson drop bleed out,
brush-stroking your exact likeness,
leaving all the beautiful blemishes
intact.
You’re the living masterpiece,
dying to exist in my world,
thriving under of my chaotic impact.
—JG ©2026

