little vampires, with their
robbin's-egg-blue tourniquets,
steal every last drip (drop)
of your blood from your (not as)
swollen (as it should be) vein.
the one in the crook of your elbow.
the one right about all the scars
left behind by your lover's lips,
(so sharp), your cold, metallic
mistress, which have been healing
up just fine (for quite sometime).
for by now you've moved on,
ripping and shredding somewhere
lower: your pale, toned thigh.

(they wonder why you stopped wearing
those short, short skirts.)