Don't.

Don't. Bite, that is. You are awaiting blood to trickle down your prey's neck like a scarlet syrup, for taste buds to sour in anticipation of the taste, your heart beat is thumping in your head in tune to the dry hymn of ache tucked discreetly in your throat. But despite the warning, you arch your back, animalistic being too simple a word for this, hedonism being too tame a theory for this. Despite the warning, you out your jaw and bite down. A race between sense and thought, you forget you have a body to hold all five in, and for a moment you are just a floating idea of bliss; until there is the heat and nausea, the eyes that won't open, and the brain- unable to trace the beginning or end of this thing too bittersweet to have a name. One second [slower, sweeter] and your fix is met. The match is lit and there is time to take, time to enjoy the flame, the blood pooling in your mouth. Taste it, hot and delicious and sweet as a metallic valentine, its molten caress fills you. You close your eyes, heavy. You retrace your steps, remember the first day you saw it on the billboard. Stopped in your tracks, wide eyes and slack. You thought it was so beautiful. Thought to yourself, I'd be bought & sold if it weren't for these scars. Too many times I've sold myself before, I can't anymore. You found a way, made new skin; found yourself new, fresh, tight- better than plastic. You were real again. You never realized it was a warning, a step behind the Rubicon, another of those obsessions you always managed to sink into, something you always meant to slip a bit too close upon. How could you say no? The warning was more of an advertisement its dangers making your heart race and you confused danger with love, high cliffs with a simple kiss- eyes placed on him to make sense of your ricochet. A kiss, a kiss, a kiss. What kind of broken-hearted melody of addiction is this? You're past the romance. You've been doing it all by yourself. All those temptations. You could throw them away. Replaced by the new infatuation, no one remembers. But scars, they tell the story of a certain self-infliction, a unique breed of gratification, instant & manifest in the permanence of the skin. A slow story. A puffy pink ribbon transformed into another quiet white secret. What once was a moment of release is now a reminder, now something to hold you back, encapsulated in not flesh but plastic. A scar is nothing more than a mistake. And lately, nothing has been more tempting than the prospect of a mistake; messy, mindless, and above all, well-made. You wipe your mouth off, smeared crimson. “I have somehow managed to include the current cliche of vampires and the tired issue of self-injury into one poem. Yay me. It's 4AM and I can do whatever the fuck I want. 0 : ) & the difference between the two and how they connect through advertisement.” November 26th, 2010