we spill with ink

In this ancient castle, I smell fresh skin, blood and broil.

I hear a pen lift on paper, fresh ink.

My senses have gotten stronger since I felt the coldness of the concrete.

There he was, smiling over a newly written letter, laughing to himself and brooding  intelligently.

He is oh so intelligent, but oh so hungry.

I feel the pit of his stomach, the empty hole of it.

Within it, we become one.

I hunger for his flesh, the way he consumes his art.

The way we both dance in the night, bodies eager with anticipation. 

---

Looks can deceive, smiles often fail to conceive the true intention of one’s mind.

This is no story of lust, rather anger.

You may picture me in red velvet, deeply you see it is only blood.

Candlelight may also deceive you, leaving you with a speck of light and a bucket of imagination.

You may see my thick and long hair bouncing around my shoulders.

I am growing over this candlelight and as I grow, I grow above him.

He sees my pursed lips and aims for words that resist him.

“I am nothing if not just an object for your satisfaction, I ache to breathe in this moonlight that you provide me with”.

I am cruel, yet dull. Crude but now I feel full.