You were a sign of death, my sweet, a sign of sex and death, and you mastered both of them with the same hands. Those hands that beckoned me to you through the expanse of my innocence, the hands that took my virginity from me, dangled it in front of my lust-dazed eyes and let me destroy it before you while I laughed; the same hands that threw the remains on your bedroom floor then took me upon their jagged pieces to celebrate the occasion.

You didn't just epitomise lust – you were lust. Every fibre that stretched through you was carved by it, rooted in it, breathed it. It was like you knew nothing but that and how to tempt women into it, how to pull the bed sheets from over their eyes and draw them from their over-sized, virginal beds to you. I've seen the girls that lived in your wake and how every thought is replaced by one desire in their minds, how prostitutes have been born in that forest from the very womb of your eyes.

You were the most powerful one of them all, my king, because you tapped into their primal urges, undressed their human nature and exposed them for who they really were: sexual savages that howled to be cured. And you cured them. You cured them several hundred times then healed them all forever with death, claiming it was the only way to put such wolves to rest.

You ruled them all with simply one sigh you were so powerful. You were the greatest creature to ever live. You were a sign of death and sex, my Lord.

But now you're dead.