Cupid’s Bow

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