That you could have my heart if you want it?
That I'd deliver it up to you, Salome style, with a dance?
I laugh. A morbid testament to my willingness to debase myself.
For you? Well, yes.
But no. Not really for you at all.
The dance, mon cher, is for me.
I rehearsed it in my mind a thousand times prior this.
Aorta on a plate--selfless? Nay. Calculated.
A selfish offering--conceived not in the moment, but centuries prior. For mine is an old soul.
La Delour Exquise.
La petit mort de cour.
That hardest part is having to know, that while you leave with the heart, I continue to hear its beat in my breast.
Synoptic to Poe-etic, the ghostly reverberations of a tale-tell heart.
And I danced for you.
All smiles for you.
But more for me.
You want to tie me up?
I've spent lifetimes tying me down.
There's no pain you can inflict that I cannot match, mon cher.
No suffering that I haven't already endured--and long before this little dance.
Because when you offered me anything I wanted, and I asked for the head of John the Baptist... Well, you shoulda known then that something was wrong long before...
Long before you.