Bruises of Amour

Poked just once and you left a hole stole what was in my arsenal; Wounded with a laceration now closer to no emotion; Pincushion heart takes every prick, the act can be so sadistic; A needle’s eye a gaping wound, bitterly mauled and then consumed; So much space to make a mess of thinking you fit me like a glove; Softer than you want to admit the marks remain after the hit; Each stab paints a different color bruises that look just like amour.