They trail down the tips of his fingertips to the edges of the tainted plain lace. And it makes her so happy to see his tears flow down from grace. His eyes. They bleed their darkest and retells his desires from Heaven's embrace. The pits of fire welcomes him to its disgrace. How shameful it must be but it makes her happy.

So she's happy with her head dunk down in the well of lost souls and see his eyes wide with happy tears in row.

Happy like the tempest with her knife thrust in your chest and makes your life end in one swift jest.

Her lies resonate in the earliest crest of childhood majesty and her humble jester would lie awake with his eyes open wide, waiting for her to say her ordered string of notes. More and more and everyday he would lie awake waiting for her lips to open and save his mind's clutter from the blood it drips with. But she would lie in her bed of soft petals and curl her fingers up for more, more, more.

More blood.

More suffering.

More him in the silver plate served at supper feast.

And he would cut a piece of his heart and serve it to her well with a grin on his face that says satisfaction. It makes her so fucking happy to see him bleed through his shirt and his hat strewn across the polished marble floor, blood-soaked and torn. His flesh heeded in the wrinkles of weariness and forlorn. But she doesn't care nor does she see through her happiness in seeing him bleed.

For her.

For her.

For her.

His majesty.