Tuesday, 2 February 2010


Forbade to write about vampires,
you play with yourself under the sheets,
imagining blood to be the sweetest Merlot
with a sweet-dry ensemble.

You cut yourself with a razor,
and pretend it helps you see more clearly;
see what's inside you:
what animates you; all your fears.

You imagine his cold flesh
touching yours;
his lips searching your neck;
his teeth finding the spot.

With a pierce,
your skin cracks.
You realise you've cut yourself again,
and you wonder the fuck why.

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