I am hurt,
These wounds even Cupid cannot heal,
Why have you done this to my heart?

Those bows and those arrows,
Which you carry so confidently and valiantly,
The sight of bees,
Singing of parrots,
And the
Scent of flowers,
What fragrant flowers they must be,
Inflaming my every thought.

Why was I not born the
Parrot that is your vehicle?
A flower out of the five that decorate each arrow?
Or the bees that make up the string to your sugarcane bow?

Do you not see what you have done?
Freshly wounded,
And this is only the first arrow,
What am I to do?

Oh Cupid, Oh Kamadeva,
Each arrow I hear,
Is enveloped with an emotion,
Happiness, fear, anger, delirium, and peace.

I cannot describe the misery and ecstasy,
The pain and pining are so great,
I seek refuge in your heart,
And in your smile,

I shall stay here,
In hapless and hopeless
Love,
Withering away,
And awaiting
The fifth and final arrow.

This poem is part of the Orinam V-Day 2013 series called The Original L Word

I like them short. 

Not because they identify me
as a member of a particular group,
but because I like as little of the white there.

Every other day
I snip away.
A routine that borders on
Ritual.
I hack away at the hard,
Dead wall
Between raw flesh
And outside unknown.
The less between me 

And you,
The closer our flesh is.
The pinkness interior
Of it.
Them.
Not so much a glove
As an echo of a
Pulse.

But I cease to break down
The barriers of keratin anymore.
Let them grow unwieldy, formidable.
Claws.

For I am tough as nails.

This poem is part of the Orinam V-Day 2013 series called The Original L Word