Killing A Cupid

Killing a cupid is a hard thing to do.
He struck me first and it was my right to fight,
To fight back in defense of his soft, warm blanket of oppression.
Who is he, it (she?), to make these choices for me?
An attack is an attack, good intentions (road to hell) or no.
His arrow was uninvited, yet
Loftiness became a mental state for old boy as much as a physical disposition,
And when you elevate yourself it is opportunity to fall is it not?
And so he found me holding his toe,
Like a fly on a string,
A new chosen destiny for he who has so callously fucked with me.
His valor will no doubt be chirped about,
Championing his mission to the bitter end.
But he wasn’t much of a fighter,
Poisoned arrows and all.
A simple branch changed the direction of his wind and,
He spiraled to the ground like a lover lost in excess.
Now to brood over those smashed feet,
Blue black and red, the color of this murderous heart.
His arms and hands have lost distinction,
Now puddles of flesh slowly trickling away from his body.
His face holds discontent like it is candy,
A smile on that sweet cherub head.
Forever was this his expression in life, and forever in death,
Pinned to him, tail on a donkey, by the arrow through his cheeks.
Remorse creeps through the back door as I survey this selfish act.
Who have I denied his gifts with my outburst of fear and failure?
Yet who have I saved?
Has he been a punisher rather than a savior for others as he has me?
As filthy as the sight at my feet is,
It pales in comparison to the damage in my breast.
It is a hard thing to kill a cupid,
A hard thing.
Kill the cupid!
I’m sorry.
He might have been good to you.
Kill the cupid.
Killing a cupid is a hard thing to do.