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.