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If you reached into her chest you wouldn't find anything there. Hollowed out, what was once mortal and soft had been altered. Changed. Rendered into the new machine. All the systems were there same as before. It breathed, it ate, it slept, it drank. But it was no longer human. No longer ubiquitous or pleasant. No longer something to be desired. Even the casual onlooker was put off. Whatever had once inhabited this shell had long since pass and now no man, woman or child would be able to place a name to it. A mere title of convenience. Something to manipulate this new machine.

Treat.

A false name. A lie. A sinister practical joke at the expensive of whosoever sought this prize. And sure as where treats are tricks are soon to follow. Perhaps the man who owned her was mad, or perhaps he had been spurned by her. The stories were many and each of them tinged with inklings of truth, and in the end if you took bits and pieces from them, along with time, you could puzzle together the legend. Whatever could be said of the man, one thing was true – he was nearly as empty as she was.

However, where his had been a slow withering from corrupt morals, a lack of ethics and a seriously skewed set of values; hers had been taken by his whim. As if in an ironic twist of fate, he was aptly named by fate. Mr. Trick. Whether his first or last or something in between, Trick was the official name on his birth certificate. An ill omen that cast a shadow over his family until he had crawled away from their all to bright and eager socially acceptable world too a slimy darker one where he could reign supreme. Often the worst nightmares are the ones that we wake to.

Because It's Everything

And I might be beautiful if it weren’t for all these scars. This rot ridden soul. Putrid and hateful.
No matter how deep the razor goes it just can’t reach what’s wrong. Because it’s everything. Every breath, beat, lash, cell. Every day, hour, moment. Curling out, up, in.

The only way to get out is to break out for good. Break down. Decay. Big bright red Cheshire grin. Sloppy jagged hunks of flesh sickeningly remindful of teeth gushing crimson vomit. And it’s all tumbling out now.
Worthless
Wasteful
Wicked
Wrong
Wrong
Wrong
And if you ever did anything right they might love you.
If you cease. Cease to be. Think.

And if you could, please, just be a little less you. However, it really doesn’t seem to be worth my time, so why don’t you just continue on.

While you’re busy championing Jonathan Harker, I’m mourning Dracula.
And who is there to hold me while I lose control?
Who is there to ease the pain of loss?
Who is there to ease the heartache?
Who is there to tell me the sun will set and night will return once more?


Maybe they would be,
If you weren’t a Monster.

But then who would you be?

Night

The hard packed sand gave way beneath her, cushioning her bare feet on this cool damp night. Sweet release from the tepid heat of the day, sweltering and dehydrating even as the humidity clung so voraciously. The soft blonde crystals clung greedily to her toes and arches; and the back of her ankles where the cadence of her walk flicked it. Even then, lost within herself, overwhelmed by the thousands of thoughts all cluttering to the fore and chattering for attention; she walked like a predator. Alone in the darkness where females were particularly cautioned against such wayward acts. Still she meandered. Solitary.

Yet this was no act of defiance. At least not conscionable. It was merely an escape. An interlude from all the burdens cloying her attention. The night was always sweeter. The sounds richer, the colors more vibrant in their subdued shades. She concentrated on the stretching and tension in the muscles. The flex of her toes to maintain balance, the subtle tremors in her abdomen and spine in response to her gait. The soft crushing sounds the earthen road made beneath her, the chittering insects and calling night birds. Drinking in the world the way she did her vodka. Deeply, as if reading the memories of each note.

Extraction

The words that are written are memories traveling through time. An existence as magnanimous as the sun, yet as all consuming as the hungriest black hole.


The stars are spilling melodies
I simmer down below
Sweet symphonies explode
I want a million
Summer nights
Swept up in your monsoon


Extraction. I'm thinking of you now. An exile reversed. I'd carve it out on a silver spoon.
We mill in the twilight, the sticky air clings. I refrain. The longing is there. As are the hours and gallons of unspilled words. It's not that I don't know what to say. It's that the words I reach seem all wrong, or not enough meaning. And you know that.
Lost in translation.

On Being A Vampire

I suppose I have been rather cantankerous of late... And-Or rather morose and encumbered with malaise. Stunted I lie lethargically recumbent. Bent on doing nothing - or rather sleeping the life I'm with away. Trapped in a memory, I'm sleeping with ghosts again. And maybe avoiding being my usual self.
It's almost like I'm hiding from something. But I have nothing to hide. However, maybe it is my lack of being so precociously blatent in my nature. Although it is something I find as natural to myself as breathing or taking a piss. Vampirism. The state of being and indulgence.

For some reason I'm drawn to memories of my coming out as wiccan. Declaring proudly with determination as I clutched that candle staring into the mirror in the middle of the night. "I Am A Witch." Stating:

I Am A Vampire

brings that rush back. That sweet symphony adrenaline ignites your body to humming. For some reason, as of late, I have been filled with a burning need to randomly meet people - shaking their hands the way those within the lifestyle have become accustomed to - and stating. "Hello. My name's Miranda, I'm a vampire. Nice to meet you." The want to climb fire-escapes to the rooftops of local buildings and shout it to the heavens.
I find it strange in that I have never denied I was. Nor have I ever not answered the questions about my consumption/desire/arousal around blood or biting. Quite forthcoming I generally tend to overwhelm. I come on strong.

You're thinking cup of coffee when it's more like Tsunami, a mile high and climbing.

I miss the shitty group of friends I had when still in the camarilla. When I still dealt with camarilla's. It was fun. And yes, we were kids and stupid. And we did a lot of things you REALLY should NOT do, or try, or even consider when you're high out of your mind on narcotics even hard core addicts avoid - but they were good times. They were fun. For all the wrong reasons - and a few right ones. We were like a family. Just as fucked up as your average, and less crazy than your Springer types.
The nights were wild and illegal. Sharing was especially casual, insanely so as not a one I know of practiced safe sex if they were getting any. And while not convinced of our mortality we were still smart enough to know better, and crazy enough not to give a damn anyway. Of all bodily fluids swapped, blood was probably the wisest choice we were making. It was definitely the one we traded on with most reverence.

And I do not advocate the young vampire scene we were living, it's not as though we had any role models. Or any real idea of what we were doing. Like most things at that stage, some of us lost touch with the scene while others went off the hairy edge into Crazy Town with it.
But as friends go, they were right fine and I miss them. And most of them weren't douchebags. I really only remember getting hurt over one or two. The rest just grew away. And maybe there were more bad times than good, but I cannot remember them. Only the hazy golden glow of a by-gone era and memories of being emboldened and content in my nature. In our nature. Celebrated as it was, if only for a little while.

I'm not too sure I want to attempt to enter the lifestyle given my current location. My metro is growing, but insofar as acceptance of differences, we're still living a Leave It To Beaver state-of-mind. The thoughts are crowding my mind, I'm just not sure I can swing the freight.
I'm not looking for a husband, a significant other, or lover.
But it would be nice to find a friend. To connect with others who's ideas of love and passion and romance run among the darker hues of the spectrum. Logically, I rationalize that given my position it is an unlikely and overly ideal dream.
Still, when the night is full and the moon is high I wish and dream...

Come out, come out - where ever you are.

Claret Mire

Randomly running through some vivid night, the stars will burn linear in confusion and pain. Thick the clawed branches of trees vicious as those frenemies having snuck up in front of you – those sheep in wolves clothing. Mild tempered curs, static; and everyone knows static equivocates death. Thorns and thistles, scattered and strewn over wild grounds amidst the scratching vegetation pierce and shred; leaving sanguine trail. Blood burned away long ago and those vessels fill with the acid that drives. Pumping, life’s drum beats a broken song. And the seas those windows leak could drown worlds in wake. Ripping through foliage, which grabs and clutches silken tresses abandoned in the urgency of need to be away.

Forest gives way to ruins, demolished and torched. Thoughtlessly carried on appendages bruised and numb with frost, moved by wires pulsing electricity from a generator on automatic pilot. Through arching doorways into shadowed realms, over smooth granite dark as void roped with argentate slices – silver veins in the ebon coat of dying wolves. Echoing slaps ring throughout chorused with gentle snapping, tattered garb mockingly white.

Stumble as earth gives way, like those reeds when the wind is high from the Hunt. The crimson stain climbing those pale threads perplexes, pushing on to wade through this claret mire. Plunging deeper as the ruby morass coats, surging up gullet, covering shoulders and clinging to mane. Some rubicund sand trap, dragging down.

How many can boast of drowning within blood marshes?

Let Me Fall To Consumption

Her mouth crawls open, great fanged gateway to realms untraversed. Piercing softly flesh rich as musky sunshine, inhale to consume essence of another. I want to travel you like nomads crossing the Sahara inching over every molecule and atom. Ice craving flame, regardless risk of cessation of self. Planets colliding give birth to stars

heavens brighter in their destruction

I’d like to collide with you.

I’m staring again, in that espionage way I have always staring never caught, Cat’s are envious that. Only this time your orbs have me, and I’m drowning in those black pools willingly, for maybe death is a little bit of heaven itself and someone is talking to me that I am ignoring absently.

I want to capture ensnare catch you.

Hunting blindly again or rather with tunnel vision, solely absorbed within you. I’m passing worlds stars universes galaxies but nothings there I want. Always within view, silent torture all too enjoyable [in ways suicides must find death]. Negligently I am reaching for you and how my world falls away when reason crushes down and I spurn myself away,

dancing insanity empty and wanting.

I want to find you intimately absent, buried in your dreams, that I may come to watch you some scientist with new specimens make slow progress over you the way insects do the denizens at night in Africa. I want to bury my visage within your hollows, that sacred place where the strongest scent of self survives – rich with the blood humming so near to surface. I want to run my ivory along that tendon keeping you alert, supple cables strong and vulnerable.

Maybe I will lure you to my den and deftly place you within those blurry realms that I may have you the way I need you.

If only for one night.

I Miss The Moon

She ran hard and fast. Ran on through the grasses, thundering between trees and bursting through bushes in a fury of twigs and leaves. Her wolfskin was hard upon her and that itself made her heart ache, pained and weary with recent events. Foolish she had been, and yet was there ever a time when she was anything but a fool? The miles passed swiftly beneath her feet. Pounding through dead leaves, dank rich earth thick with the scent of vegetations decay; over rocks and pebbles crushing into brisk waters flowing with their angry torrents – grasping grabbing so eagerly for her. She wanted to let go and embrace its caress deep into its raging rocky depths, but the anger and pain burned high in her and she galloped on. Running into the night as though she could catch the moon, so close and still so far; nearly hiding in its new skin. She wanted to hate them, those silly things with their exemplar ideals; such farces and still so embraced. Naive sheep with their stories of how the hero defeats the boogieman, the big bad nasty thing.

They had come with their silver, ignorant and full of fear. Immunity was hers through chance and accident; and what a charade to think it might kill her, that maybe if she just let enough sink down into her it would work its toxic will and bind her to death. She howled the anguish. She envied them with their ignorance to believe that everything was better when you hunted down the monster; how can that be when you are the monster? And she ran ran until everything was burned away by the sheer need and will to run; ran until there was no more fear or rage or pain. She ran until forever passed beneath her feet.

Pardon The Way That I Stare

The boy is sitting there. The girl sits there too. But the boy does not see the girl; he is too concerned with the future. Tomorrow’s tomorrow’s tomorrow.

THERE IS NO TOMORROW FOR THE GIRL.

Gollum hollow, filled to bursting with that achy emptiness – thick and suffocating, self replicating cotton pushing at the seams. She’s memorizing every inch of him [the way vampires do veins – softly humming highways of life]. She could crawl millions of miles across his flesh and never be finished. Some glorious puzzle box she’s too terrified to touch.

CAUTION: FRAGILE

That conflagration blazing in her distal digits caused violent seizing, swiftly hidden beneath idle limbs.

How long would this
[THIRST NECESSITY CRAVING WANT HUNGER YEARNING NEED]
go unrequited?
How much longer could she bear it?

Implosion on the horizon, she inhaled deeply – vain endeavor to impart the effortlessly achievable portion of him within her. Mournful, the howl rolling up her throat - swiftly stifled, eruption no more than a whimper.

Whether politely ignored or blatant indifference, lack of acknowledgment proved damaging. Obvious inadequacy spurned her to motion. She could no more tell if he loved her than if he hated her; worse was the utter lack of paths to convey her intentions.

But she could RUN.

Rising like the night she flowed into kinetics, pounding flesh to earth until the night had evaporated and acid seared her veins.