T H I R S T

Let me haunt the pretty things

Cluttered in the corners of your eyes.

They look delectable in the honey sunlight

Of your private mourning session.

And I am starving.

Ravenous for the feast.

.

Let me steal your loveliness.

.

I will eat it raw,

Devour it without a dash of sugar or spice.

There is nothing nice

About the way I will lap up the crystal sorrow

Flowing in rivers down your cheeks

With a barbed tongue gone silver from the lies.

.

I will swallow the waterfalls pouring from your jaw

And shoot the songbird down with a glance

Because this is my mountain, my valley, my river.

Your famine is my feast.

And I will drink up every last drop that rains

Across the canvas of your heart.

.

You are my plague.

.

I will starve you of joy

By sucking on your suffering like a melancholy-addicted vampire

Bent on eating every ounce of salt that leaks from your eyes.

It is...pure euphoria

To bathe in the waters of your agony

And feed the life in my veins with your despair.

.

I am thirsty.

.

I swell from the saltwater,

Filling the cracks of your spirit with my engorged presence.

I will split your foundation

And leave you with nothing but a gaping hole in your chest

Where a home used to sit.

I will destroy you to find a sweet dessert.

.

You are waning.

.

You were a lush paradise of misery.

Gorgeous tropics and old-growth forests dripped

With your unhappiness

And I was a creeping vine slithering up your trunk,

Choking out the life you had established,

Covering your future in a veil of black nothingness.

.

You will not survive this.

.

There is nothing left,

The sands of a newly formed desert crust in your eyes

Where glittering lakes once slept.

I have taken all the beautiful sorrow from you

And now I choke on the ugly apathy

Throwing sandstorms across my tongue.

.

My meal has concluded.

.

So, too, have the worthy parts of your life.

They sit in my swollen stomach,

Pressing on my lungs and threatening to creep back up my throat.

Your misery has fed me well.

And I would think to utter a thanks

But the sand dunes of apathy in your eyes would not register it.

.

I have killed you by drinking your sorrow

Until my thirst was quenched.

.

-Silver Serpent Books