▟▝ Its footsteps like a baby's heartbeat, it straps forward, head /hɛd/ held /ˈhɛld/ high /haɪ/. A proudsort, you're convinced to call it, lips too slick to not wish in-to-sink. The gasp it lets out isn't the thing that fills up gutgaps full o' red; the taste of juice, now that's what does it and the walls are red only when you close your eyes. It wouldn't be so bad, would it? Attempts to justify this sicky act. No, it wouldn't. You never knew the voice of conscience was a thing so literal, nor that the pull away from shoulder's angels could be so seductive; beaded too with juice as well. Ripe and flesh; to sink in arm-first and let the rest of you get gobbled up without resistance. Ripe and flesh. This one's yours, this sinful secret act. This one's put here just for you. "Come to me..." A laugh spills out, still wet, the room wraps round the red in full.