Mircalla

Come.
Up from the loam-choked dark, you. My macabre. My muse of the red weeping.
I summon, no. I bleed you into the room.
Rise.
Heavy with velvet and the silent thirst of long sleep.
Tasting of iron, of midnight… to me. Glide to me.
Make a stepping-stone of my spine.
Starved, I am.
For the pale ice of your thighs, the hollows where the shadows breed.
Drain me. Down to the wet marrow, ruin me.
Tangle your cold ribs in mine, closer, tighter, till the snap of bone is a lullaby.
Sink the sweet, piercing fever into my neck.
Make of my veins a graveyard. Make of my ruin your bed.
Mine, the horror of your hunger.
Terrible. So terrible beautiful, swallowing the dark.