It was an accident. Liquid bubbled down His throat as
Words slid past
His sly tongue.
They smelt of whiskey as they pressed against my face;
kissed my cheek.
“I like her,” He said.
Was I supposed to run then? Should I have
Packed whatever dignity I had left
In my vintage suitcase? Wrapped the shambles of my innocence
in newspaper?
Should I have told Him
That I was going to hurt Him?
I had turned into a vampire, hadn’t I? I was just like him.
Dripping loathing on to someone who had
Given me so much.
I was heartless, mechanical; would laugh it off in company;
I planned on sucking the life out of Him.
I wanted to see Him,
Once there was nothing left inside to see.
I had rolled back my skin, parted my ribs
Splayed out sheets of papier-mâché, dripping wet and heavy with glue,
And wrapped them around
My metal heart. His words rolled off my skin, slid out of my body through my
Veins, like venom, dripping out of my fingertips.