I am wanton; I am death.

My skin sloughs like pearl-silk from oyster bellies and my eyes are the ever-churning plague in a wounded sky. I bleed tears for You, so that You may collect them as Your jewels to adorn perfect throat and wrists. So that You may lick them with demon-sharp tongue to incise the center of my being. What rises, my Lady, from my glorious filth?

Where do perfumed lips find sustenance but at the arteries pulsing with midnight promises. Garnet muscle and opaline sinew parting to reveal bruise-blush organs and milky bones.

My spine will be a beautiful weapon. A feast served by musician's hands with sinewy fingers that dance over platters of the hearts You collect. The gaping crevasse where my own heart would be, instead a nest of fine gold bearing twin eggs: jade and emerald.

Yet my words are vipers, slow-coiling, hungering - delivering stealthy bites as they chew on the lips that offer them.

Vipers reborn in stinging green flame, mesmerised by their own fall.

Thank You, Lady, for Your Gifts to we, the undeserving.

Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 22nd of Haernos, in the year 496 MA.