Parasite
By.
eventidespirit
I dabble my
lips against the clinging bits of blood
Still fresh, vividly
crimson, and beautiful,
Yet it tastes like nothing
But a rushed
array of content distortion
For one moment, her blood tastes like
summer-
Saccharinely sweet but lethargic
As the red blood
seeps slowly like a slug
Within my mouth,
But the next moment,
her blood is like winter-
It flares into a cold, bitterly harsh
taste
As it burns my lips, reopening old sores
Before lapsing
into banality.
It's as if her blood's simply given up trying
to amuse me,
And it becomes nothing but a tasteless, bland, red
liquid.
Drips of red spill through my lips:
I cannot reside
within this creature,
I can hardly dare to breathe
For her
blood is scarcely alive as it is
I always dread
finding a new host.
Finding a suitable host,
A worthy companion
of the mind to feast upon
Is like dipping fingertips upon a fast
awakening
Pond frozen long ago by winter,
And feeling a spark,
a connection of life
Beneath the sleety sheet of ice.
I
press my lips against another pool of red-
Her blood tastes like
autumn,
Willowy, wispy, not beautiful but a shy shade of lovely.
It flows melodiously,
Singing with minute, careful detail
And
a constant taste of longing
Pervades within her veins
For
she's a dreamer,
And she savors every last bit of
description.
Intrigued and fascinated,
I let myself sink
within the pool of rosy red
And live vicariously within.