My Open Letter to a Flying Pest

Cupid’s such a jerk!

Entry for:"The Bard's Hall Contest"  February 2026

Cupid, you’re fired.
Hand in your wings and that stupid, shiny bow.
You’re not a god; you’re a liability,
A hazard with a halo.

Your resume is a list of disasters:
“Expert in creating awkward stares,”
“Specialist in mismatched hearts,”
“Proven record of unanswered prayers.”

You shoot first and never ask questions,
A reckless, rosy-cheeked punk.
Your darts are just fancy infections,
Leaving the sensible sunk.

You think a flutter and a twinkle
Makes up for the mess you’ve designed?
The crying, the waiting, the wrinkle
Of worry that knots up the mind?

You paired my friend with a ghost-er,
And my cousin with a boast-er.
You aim for chaos, not for grace,
Then hide that smug little baby face.

This isn’t romance, it’s a chore you’ve assigned,
A confusing, exhausting, and terrible game.
True love is patient, and thoughtful, and kind,
It doesn’t need your glittery, false, fleeting flame.

So pack up your arrows, you chubby con-artist.
Your services here are no longer required.
We’ll find our own way, though it’s slower and hardest,
Without your “help,” which just leaves everyone tired.

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