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
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.