There is a perpetual agony to which I have succumb;
one I fear is more tortuous than the starvation from which I now suffer,
and (most likely) more lethal in a single drop than any poison that has yet been devised.
Because of this, there exists no cure for what has infected me
(which is rightly so, I suppose, given the circumstance of contraction).
It courses through my veins, causes my heart to shutter and fail,
and makes me stammer and fumble the conceptions that I, and others, once held.
Yes. Your scam has stung me worse than a scorching desert wind;
so hot, it were as if its wretched motion were sandblasting my naked frailty with every step.
Yet it tasted so sweet when I drank of it; that is until the bitterness of the last sip.
The sudden realization of it had sent me writhing to the floor
(which had once been so cool to the touch),
and I had watched as my very blood spilt fourth violently; in a mixture of treachery and vomit.
My infected blood, that is, which you gave to me,