blood suckers,
engorged with the sanguine sap of Catholic, Jew,
and for good measure a Buddhist or two,

more multitudinous than molecules
in a mastodon’s eye,
these whizzing winged vampires
leave an angst filled itch
in their wicked wake    

they avoid me, though my blood
is there for the siphoning
with  perverse sense of smell
they can somehow tell  
I am one of them,
without the gift of flight  
yet ******* my own crimson cream  
both day and eternal night