Famine

Pick me off my withered vine and cut the rot out of my body with a silver blade. Take a bite out of me and feel yourself become ill. My blood will trail down your chin, let it dry, and stain your mouth. Let the sugar from my bloodstream rot your teeth. You trusted me to be sweet and ignored the mold growing off my skin. Devour me until you get flavor fatigue. Watch your blood run cold as you realize the bitter-sweet, sickening taste is attributed to my sickness, the rot was more than you could handle. You'll fall to the ground with my blood still staining your teeth.