Fangs are sprouting from my skull,
you cannot stop what must be done.
Bound indoors with curtains drawn,
until moon takes the place of sun.
Needle sharp teeth puncture your skin,
the transformation has begun.
I whisper something in your ear,
your human form and gender, none.
When coven blood out-thickens water,
we have just started all the fun.
Vampires have to stick together,
no mother, father, daughter, son.
This poem is meant to create a parallel between the transgender experience and that of a vampire. The duality between two different transformations both fueled by puncture wounds, as well as the pattern that happens after you come out. Once one person in a community is out of the closet, oftentimes others follow because they feel safer to do so. This is not a critique of my community. Trans folks are not monsters. However, sometimes we are ostracized and treated as if we were. I think I'd be proud to be a vampire, too.