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

Minotaur.

A huge sigh

of fucking relief

hit her chest

when the hungry haunted

fed forced her poison,

oh to finally

end this freak’s

suffering,

grabbing her

by the teeth,

and dragging her,

sputtering blood

and tinsel,

through

Jack the Ripper’s

streets of

grisly London.

She sat on the frostbite floor and

prayed,

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

shut

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.