Ballerina Vampires tiptoeing through the halls of the Mansion
Amour, amour
they whore themselves.

I have no strength in my limbs left to fight it
the tendrils liquefied, slipping through my fingers
like the hungry ghosts of long dead sisters,

you hold me up to pose like a scarecrow,
like Jesus Christ as he died.

The symbolism isn't lost on me,

and even while I sleep I hear the slipping of white chemises;
the slack stretch of pointe shoes; the tutu a wooden cage,
our hands throbbing from the splinters, waxy lipped
our toes leave tiny pools of blood on the aged wood.

The heroin passes
like a tongue and cheek orgy.

Tongue and teeth,
they bit down, soft at first, but
harder after a while, like all things,
drain you of your energy, their bones
shiver deep inside their skin

the rib cage juts
in arabesque, tumble
into 5th position,

the line
the line.

They appear like mirages in the desert
tiptoeing forward and from the parapet I watch them all jump into the arms
of frost-bitten moonlight,

their warm breath spells their names
in the steam above their heads.

The lean across the corners of the back door,
the ancient screen doors keep them at bay,

they take lovers,
let themselves drain out
like bathwater from the drain,

wait
for release
and further instruction,

keep the kiss locked in their
childhood music boxes, hum the
twinkle hymn of dance ballerina dance.

Finally, they will allow themselves to be still,

watch their tiptoeing dance with slanted eyes to keep
free of their trance-hold,

They mold, their skeletons rotting into matchsticks.

They scald to the touch like hot water,
their phantom smiles filling the basements,
their lovers left aching on dirty sheets form their sway,

they make it seem natural,
they make it seem so easy.

I soak up their screams for good dramatic
effect, and rework their blasphemy into my bedside
prayers each night.

Amour, amour
how they whore themselves,
it is not the lines on their faces
which are straighter then mine, or the
delicacy of a woman without much shape,

but rather, how hard I have to try at this tangled spider web
dance, and how with just a raised arm, or level leg
they become the masterminds,

the orderly fashion of moving through life with too much beauty.

Amour, amour,
we adore you,
we abhor you.

They laugh sweetly when the sun comes up and the wine bottles
are all dried up with the hollow last drips and layer upon layer of
victim's lay sprawled in their frantic wake across the floor.

Yellowing bones,
amour,

My eyes squint in the daylight,
dance shatters the hypnotizing glow,

their hair always smells like nightshade,
like hemlock, and cold jade,

I was once the daughter of someone, someone who would hate to
see me like this, someone who would hate to know.

Amour, amour
how we all whore ourselves,
in one fashion, or
another.