The moon arose upon the dark night sky,
My lover lay still sleeping next to me,
His insipid skin shone bright, the beauty of he,
I arose; my fangs extended I can’t deny,
I assume you guessed that we cannot die,
As I wait I brew a *** of blood tea,
But the kettle screamed loud as a banshee,
My Dear, looked at me, a gleam in his eye,
He sat beside me, I can tell he thirsts,
“Dark angel” he charmed “lets please our blood lust,”
“Mon Cher” I murmur, “long as you’re with me,”
I bite her arching neck and the blood bursts,
You are the solitary one I trust,
This is survival, not just a **** spree.

in the glow of the moon she shines
her silhouette everchanging as she moves

the lights reflect her eyes
her skirt flows in the wind

in the shadows of the forest she shines
her body so still as she looks back at me

there's beauty in her smile, and danger
a flicker of something unknown

in the abyss of space she shines
her claws outstretched to meet me

her eyes are so different now
in her cold grip i still feel her warmth

on unfamiliar ground she shines
her silhouette unrecognisable to me now

feathers and tentacles, claws and fangs
my heart is still hers

when she was eight years old
she
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches?
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach

it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
proclaiming she trickles with stars

when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage.

she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues