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THERE IS A HOLLOW SPOT IN HER CHEST.
Where the healthy organ of a young woman should beat strong is nothing but emptiness soon occupied by the thrumming dark scarlet of blood.
She used to care. She no longer does.
She hated killing, once, long ago, before she saw sense. Now she revels in it, in the death, in the beauty of their cold bodies, heartless and bloodless.
There is a hollow spot in her chest.
Where the turbulent emotions of a young adult should hum strong is nothing but emptiness soon occupied by the wonderful biting sting of the virus that was a gift.
She used to feel. She no longer does.
She felt, once, long ago, before she saw sense. Now the last of her feelings lays buried, crushed along with the healthy organ that once was, past and no longer.
There is a hollow spot in her chest.
It needs to be filled.
It is hungry.
She is hungry.
And she will feed.
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