I do not wonder what runs through you.
I know.
Rot seldom has variations.
Your arteries are excuses.
Your bones, unannounced declarations.
Your skin, a treaty you signed with silence.
To consume you is devotion.
Measured, deliberate, intimate.
Each sinew a sentence, each pulse a confession,
read and savored,
until nothing remains but the essence I carry with me.
You were never yours.
You are mine.
Bound.
In blood, forever.
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