Year of the Minotaur

A vampire’s rage
was throwing a party
amidst my insides,
and light seemed to
wreak a ferocious havoc
on my brain cells,
just as much as the dark,
in the year of the

A huge sigh
of fucking relief
hit her chest
when the hungry haunted
fed forced her poison,
oh to finally
end this freak’s
grabbing her
by the teeth,
and dragging her,
sputtering blood
and tinsel,
Jack the Ripper’s
streets of
grisly London.

She sat on the frostbite floor and
to no one in particular,
bled oil and ink,
drank far too much
so that the room spun
like a pinwheel,
tried to throw up
the emotions so intense
they overcame her sight,
she shook
from the venom,
stapled her mouth
as to not
wake the neighborhood
with her screeching howls.

I met her doing
balancing acts
down abandoned
railroad tracks on
the outskirts of
Flint, Michigan.
She was humming
a somewhat familiar tune
which took my
sensory glands
back to the night
a few months after
my dad was dead and burned,
and I cut all
my hair off,
at 4 in the morning,
with a pair of old rusty scissors,
in the upstairs bathroom,
with the lights off,
and the panic of
being human
quelled for a brief moment,
and I went back to sleep,
dreaming of sex and angels.

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