Merriam-Webster defines ichor as an ethereal fluid taking the place of blood in the veins of the ancient Greek gods, at least it did the last time I checked. But when I opened up his chest, expecting the ichor of the gods, all I saw was the insides of a pomegranate. I had never seen anyone, before or after, who laid dead as he had. I don’t know why but I had wanted to taste it. I had never had a pomegranate before. Thinking back on it today, I wish I hadn’t done what I did. There seems to be a pattern in my life, of me being unable to love someone without consuming them entirely. It’s hard to love someone without softness in one hand, and a weapon in the other. Perhaps, if my mother had fed me better I could’ve truly loved him, my Orpheus. In all honesty, I believe he damned me entirely when he started paying me attention. I don’t know if I will ever regret it, though.