In your sun I know I'll drown. So, I rise when it goes down. Add all my years, I am so old. Yet, I'll never feel your cold. Your punctured skin are signs you're dead but that to me means I am fed. I'll lure you in with fake romance. The lies I'll tell, you'll take a chance. Allaying your fears, I'll promise you years. Then, muffled screams that no one hears. So what you see as silver and gold in reality, a death so cold.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Romancing the undead. Unlikely to get pregnant, more disemboweled in your bed.