I feel vigorous whenever I puncture my fangs and savour gratifying red, snivels of malleability desiccated from your rossette buds. You aren't really captivated by the conjecture of receiving a multitude of ancillary injuries from the negligent non-human I felt from the terror in your luminous garnet optics.

Lady of Morning.

--you mask yourself as a sunflower, vivacious with intoxicated pigments beamed from the sun's shine of aureate.

Lady of Innocence.

--sober masquerade offers a sanctuary for the remnants of pristine ego, shattered yet not shattered. Her flesh is as thick as leather, one tear would not cause malicious inferno, only tumbles of woe.

Lady of Nectar.

--each vermillion silk string residing and dissolving on immortal tongue is acknowledged for conceiving perennial hunger. She is a bee whose honey smells of florid aroma amalgamated with metallic sour, a captivating flavour to ever experience. You never fathomed my vacancy for crimson hue? Without you, I would be a man who only desires the vermilion brine your vessel has to render.

You are a healer.

Not a meal. A healer whose innocence will be the death of her.