Scars

If scars were love, then on your lovely self,

I’d sate my wants, then, with this heaven-blest

Incisive bent, I’d ruin my blood myself.

And with that blood still flowing from my breast,

I’ll give my scars to you. O Angel, part yourself

From injured gaps—to see our own incest

With falling of our flesh from bone-ribbed shelf,

And love thus spilled will never love us less.

Our inner beauties weep at blood exposed.

And thus with frenzied slashes I do pray,

That you, my darling, seek a calm repose,

Ere I do smother you with love of mine,

Where you and I then, with each knife-edged line,

Deep down, to rest, can each our lives both lay.

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