If *** is a weapon, she shoots to ****.
She left a scar, there,
Beneath my chest for the thrill.
The pain refuses to abate. And like the throbbing of a toothache,
She numbs my will.

If looks could ****, she’d be a weapon
Of mass destruction.
And the hollow she wrought with ease in me,
Betrays her lack of skill.
Now, like a warhead of doomed love, she strikes,
And blasts my cursed will.

Yet I’d have her sent on me still...