don’t you know

my cradle was a coffin,

my beginning 

the end?

and don’t you know 

my sunrise

was a sunset,

that i was baptized 

in the Styx?

don’t you know

the stars winked out

when my heart 

began its beating?

and don’t you know

how many bled

to feed the babe

naked, nursing?

a bottle filled

with ruby red—

how many left

drained, bleeding?

so, i ask you:

can a vampire

learn to love?

can i kiss your neck

without sinking

my teeth?

and if you lay your head 

on my chest

but hear not a heartbeat,

tell me: 

will you run?

please, tell me:

can a vampire love?

you branded the inside of my heart

can’t shake the feeling

that anyone I let in 

sees you there.

your initials scarred,

emblazoned 

on my chest.

you softened my heart,

then shaped the clay 

with your hands.

into the crucible:

our flame scorched me into ceramic.

then,

you dropped me.

still am i here,

bloodied knees,

picking up the scattered pieces 

of myself.

i wear you:

lesions on the brain,

burns on the heart,

scars on my knees.

i wear you.

you don’t

write poetry:

you go and soak yourself in the elements,

and then let them write through you.

you don’t 

write poetry:

you go and soak yourself up

in as much love and hatred 

in as much medicine and poison

as possible

and then bleed them onto paper.

you don’t write poetry,

you don’t move souls,

you don’t inspire,

you don’t make 

anyone 

feel.

you first

are moved;

you first

are inspired;

you first

feel 

with all that you are;

and then, 

you lay yourself

bare

on paper.

you don’t write poetry.