Don't wound me love, I beg you.
I have carried my heart between my finger tips as it wept between the folds.
I placed it high on a shelf determined to wait
but it would insist on rolling off into the fire before I could catch it.
But you, my love, pure in kindness
don't let me down.
Don't smash me into pieces for your own amusement.
Hold me tight in the palm of your hand,
cover me with your cloak and wash the mud from my skin.
Because you can have all of me; filthy in hurt and bitterness, the weight of the day
pressing on my softness.
I will be putty in your hands, shape me like a sculpture, make me a warrior.
Love me, love me, love me.
I was made for love.