HUNTING

 

What would you call this corrupted longing?

Not love but lust, insatiable hunger of a monstrous palate.

I am the la dame blanch in the odd looking hut.

You should return to your house.

 

I can see you were hurt before.

So leave, my love is but a festering sore.

Your fierce foams stain my white dress to adulterous red.

Return to your house of cards, there is no time to waste.