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It is always the same
She is standing over prey
In the clearing of the forest
A dab of blood on her lip
Unaware of anything
But the sweet flesh,
And the traps of desire
Sent to taste it
Staring up from the flat of their back
Her blue eyes and
Flowing crimson hair
Are the last things her prey shall see
Every morning the same
I wake in her body
Without memory of the night
Just the lingering thought
Of what I have become