Wanna see you.

On your knees.

Whispering, screaming, ranting out, please, please, please.  Words drowned in saliva and throat raked raw from hours of pleading.  Come, go, stay, just don't stop.

So pretty when you cry and your face gets color.  Cherry reds and pastel pinks, blooming over the angles and planes of your face.  Need to lick the pale spaces raw, until they ripen into flesh color, watch it fade out into pallor.

I want to believe you're not.  Dead.  Undead.  If I see the blood, watch it slide down your shoulder blades, between your plump, perfect ass, then I can believe that you are alive.  That touching you won't freeze me.  The blood will have the tang sweet spice of humans.  And her.

It won't, and just knowing that makes me want to slit you from pelvis to chest, let the truth swing out.  You would smile even as your guts literally spilled out at my feet.

Minutes, hours, seconds, years, maybe centuries have passed and still I'm wishing that you were more.  Obedient. Pleasing.  Like me.

Can't stand the smirk on your tender, thin lips.  Etched there like acid in metal, immutable.  It's as much a part of you as the moniker you adopted, now, and I ache with the desire to scratch it off.  Bear it away into memory, and make the old hesitant, almost genuine smile come back. Better the mimicry of gentle humanity than the hammer hard façade of reckless death.

Against the dying of the light, we rage, words of the poet, and they make all too much.  Perfect.  Fucking.  Sense.

I hate it.

Hate endings, beginnings, and brave words smeared in blood and sacrifice.  I feel heart sick.  Like I've walked into living suspension, and I hear the words, my own words, rattle and explode in my ears, over and over and over again.

It's….not saying her name.  I can't make my mouth form the consonants and vowels and release the word into being.  As if not saying it, not completing the thought again, will make it not real.

It is.  It's terribly real, and you'll be here.  Kneeling. Because you know it's real, and you know it hurts.  I don't want to know you have your own terror.  Loss of the guiding sunlight.   I don't want to know that something of the human imprinted vampire remains in the carbon copy of evil that parades around today.  Always the one who loved, and loved, poured out a honest, screaming emotion.  Infinitum.

I just want you on your knees.  Under me.  Taking me.  In you.  Scrapping you raw and bloody and warm.

Until it's not real anymore.

When it's real, I can't walk into my life, unlife, and be brave.  I can't mock the human and squash the demon.  The terror of the real needs a harness, and you accept that. If you take a personal satisfaction in being the only thing, only action, standing between me and emotional implosion, so be it.  I can't give you her, and I can't get her,  but I can mold you into a semblance of color, warmth, and sunlight.

Give the dream form, and let your skin by my avenue.  Walk along the valleys with my fists, pound new bright red rivers with my feet, suckle the lacerated breasts with fangs.  Through you, and in you, I lose the terrible certainty that I can't be without her.  By opening your skin muscle bone  to the wonders of the world, it's easy to drown in the denial.

Of an end.

Of gifts.

//Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion. //

~~

I dreamed once of a fallen night, soft cotton of darkness over my face, stars like pinpricks of pleasurepain on my body.  Gentle sweet goodness covered me there, and we touched, and rolled into the soft grass.  And loved.

It never fucking happened, and it never fucking will, and it's a terrible, awful thing to be where I am.  Fucked up one way and down another.  Try to shut off the voices. It's like trying to hold my hands to a bloody water fountain and say ever so politely, please stop gushing, you're fucking annoying.

Should have stopped her, should have done.  Anything.  Had to happen.  You're a failure.  Rotten man.  Pansy ass. Terrible poet.  Neutered demon.

Your mighty hands pluck and draw at my body until my eyes run red and my hair drifts free to the ground.  I'm drowning in my own blood, lungs that don't need breath leveling out with dark blood, no oxygen, no color, and I cough just to see the brilliant spray of drops against the ground.  You think I'm enjoying this, you see the outside, and like fucking always, that's what you see.

Me on my knees.

Me begging.

Me offering you this terrible excuse for humanity.  As a way to cross the bridge of grief.  As a way to make yourself feel.  Better.  Giving you a way to react without hanging lost in screaming loss forever.  I'm the stop-gap in the well of fear and ache that trembles out through your limbs, fingers, hands.  Into my slick pale smooth skin. Hitting until you see.  Blood.  Rising, freshening the death with stolen life.

Oh, you stupid man.  Colossal arrogance to be so sure, to assume, that what you see is what is.  She was lovely and bright and true, and she had her own dark demons and  desires that fell for you under what she was.  For you.  And only you, because we all saw her as incomplete without her innocent cruelties and false words.  Only the men and demons allowed to love her let the light blind them to frailties. Failures.

She was only fucking human, and you never let yourself accept.  Her imminent death.  And what it meant.  You ran, you let yourself be separated by time and space and new lives from the one thing that gave your sorry-ass existence meaning.  Before her, you were a pathetic shell of a vampire.  After her, the soul had purpose.  And you saw that.  You accepted that.  You, at times, reveled in that.

Dunno, I suppose that it had to happen.  All that fucking tripe about you being bad for each other, and not being happy little warriors for the light and being lovers. Didn't work.  Too much death and pain happened when you tried.

Yeah, well, fucker, I accepted it.  I accepted being in the shadows of her life, because at least I was in her life. At least I finally made her see the man in me, more genuine and authentic than the demon.  Yes, I relish death.  The kill.  The act of opening into someone a conduit of death and forcing their life into me.  Fierce, fast, and pumped. I love the kill.  But I love.  Death, Drusilla, Cecily, and a tiny blonde Slayer.

I loved.

And I'd like, just once, as I kneel before you, meeting your glassy eyes straight on, for you to admit that you were never even half the man I still am.  The man she respected.  The man she entrusted her baby sister to.

Most of all, I need you to break.  Find the place in me that you can't get past, can't shatter, can't shred to naked, bare  bits, and stop.  You're in a fucking suspension, and it galls me to say it.  I get to save the day.  I get to be sacrificial fucking lamb.  Somewhere in my flesh, you damn well better find a way to grieve.

Me:

In the rain of blows, I find resolution;

In the flow of sticky red fluid, I find peace;

In the mind-fucking physical agony, I find the man.

//And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.//
 

~end~

>>feedback