Oh, Bernini, I think you may have some things wrong. 
I see what you were trying to do, but Instead it was a disservice
There was no rape, you see
His strong hand gripping my marble thighs
Was not violent, but passionate
He touched my virginal body
I kissed his cold, stone lips
I clutched at his back, my fingers tangled in his black hair
The tears so gracefully carved were tears of ecstasy
He was my lover, not my captor
His heart has always been mine alone
Your art is beautiful
But your storytelling is very poor
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