She held the bitter memories in her mouth, tonguing them and feeling their shape and texture. Their original clean-slicing edges eventually turned ragged and infectious, and the places that she probed more often, circling with bitter gall, changed shape and soon morphed into entirely different things. Were she to either swallow or spit them out, she could perhaps digest or simply rid herself of them. This would of course fail to feed her—but it would free her.
Having grown accustomed to the taste, though, she grew to relish the intensity of the flavor of gall and blood: so much stronger than normal fare. And so she could not resist the temptation to savor again and again.
