They are thirsty…

They are always thirsty. More does not satisfy, but it only makes them thirstier. Their delight is in pain, their thirst is for blood. They drink the running crimson from my wrists, their tongues clean the wounds, their lips are stained with my own crimson life. It drips down their chins in messy lines. The stains contrast their ashen, ghost-like faces.

They drank and yet they are thirsty. Their desire is to drink until my veins collapse, until I shrivel up and die, to have my empty carcass blown away like a news paper in the wind.

They lick the blades used to draw the blood, they clean every drop of crimson perfection from the cold steel.

They drink, yet they are still thirsty with and unquenchable thirst.