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An Acquired Taste for Blood
At first, it was revulsion—
the iron sting upon the tongue,
a bitterness learned by instinct
to be spat away, denied.
Yet hunger is an eloquent tutor.
It whispers when reason sleeps,
teaches the palate to listen
where conscience once spoke.
Blood is not sweetness;
it is memory made liquid—
of pulse and panic,
of lives insisting on being felt.
One sip becomes a sentence,
another a paragraph of need.
The body adapts before the mind consents,
and appetite disguises itself as clarity.
Soon, restraint feels artificial,
a rule written for weaker days.
The red no longer shocks the eye;
it promises warmth, continuation, truth.