|Crave of Death
Author: Blackening the Ivy PM
The meditations of a lonely vampire girl - Rainwater smears the window, Crippling the image that comes through. It echoes the pain we all hold inside. The pain that I feel. No screams can cure this. No water will flush it from my mind... Wash it from my vRated: Fiction T - English - Supernatural/Angst - Words: 568 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 12-14-04 - id: 1782626
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Rainwater smears the window,
Crippling the image that comes through.
It echoes the pain that we all hold inside.
The pain I feel.
No screams will cure this.
No water will flush it from my mind...
Wash it from my veins.
Drawing words into burning metal,
Words that scream of death and decay.
Words that rupture the human mind.
But I had to get them out.
In place of my screaming.
My voice has long been lost upon the wind.
Time has been cruel,
Though through it, I have not change,
Above all curses.
These marks in my skin,
The pain that crawls in my veins and in my hollow eyes.
That bleed tears in the mirror.
My beautiful and horrific reflection.
The reflection of a desperate girl.
A lonely girl.
Who has lived for far to long,
In this body,
But mind there,
Some of the pieces missing.
The burning metal begins to cool,
The words etched in,
Until I again melt it,
With icy hands yearning for warmth and for life.
To kill is how I recieve my "life"...
It only lasts for precious seconds after I have completely consumed the rushing blood...
But then it leaves with the viscious winds,
That has made my skin desolate and dry,
Thrashed raw this barren forest,
Made me a barren soul.
No happiness to speak of.
Bruises run up and down my arms,
Because my flesh is so thin,
And the tree roots,
Always seem to pull me under,
Wanting to drag me into the ground...
Where I truly belong,
Ashes, six feet under.
But I "survive."
The sun does not burn me,
Nor does the fire,
A crucifix would be my only encumbrance,
As would the holy word.
Above the living and below them.
My unlasting, simulated life,
The warmth that only melts the ice for an instant.
Fire is like frostbite,
Winter leers at me,
Through menacing icicles,
The raw wind.
My sheer agony.
Begins to drag me down,
As my reflection disappears...
It always does when the Thirst comes upon me.
It makes me so strong...
But so fragile.
Don't break the glass,
For I shall use it to tear apart your veins,
Your clotted capillaries...
Your every blood vessel,
Until I have drained you dry,
And you are limp in my arms...
A lovely feast of entrails and flesh.
Then, I melt the metal and write more verses,
An ongoing poem of my being.
It makes sense,
But is a piece of jumbled words,
They mix and merge,
Bloody, written with my blood-stained hands.
Licking my fingers,
I watch as the metal once again cools,
Then I look in the mirror,
And my contentment once again drains out.
Yet written across my face:
And I just stare at them,
Then look at the words in the silver plate.
As an undead beast.
I died with dry veins,
Blood shoved into my mouth.
Now a desperate thing,
Holding on by a thread of vein,
Wishing for a release,
From bombardment of the dead and the living.
While I am niether.
The red stream lets loose from above me,
And I am covered in warm, comforting blood.