I offered you my heart on a silver plate.
Beating, beating, beating
For you.
You called it a meal but I called it fate
Until you ate my heart out and rubbed your belly,
It was art, the way you devoured my heart.
The devil will get his due.
Now my head is booming with mad brilliance
And your name fills the pages of books on every other hand,
But my heart remains empty and lacklustre.
It's as if dead, but I know better.
So I place my hand on my chest, and find my heart still "Beating, beating, beating
For you."
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