And if she could cut her chest open with a cheap pocket knife, plant her hand through the flesh and blood, fist on the barely beating muscle and rip it out — if she could, all she’ll see is a drunk heart. Perhaps with passion.
Lust. Love.
The angels’ blood. The demons’ tears. Humans’ faults. Animals’ savagery.
Yet still insatiable; deprived of ambrosia. And most certainly from Aphrodite’s lips.
(I’d beg if it means I get to feed, to survive on a smidgeon of absolute purity.)
Lady Avery 