I feel like the victim of a vampire, 
drained away by ignored love, 
ready to return soon from hell's fire, 
to strike others from above. 
Will I rise from this, 
to treat them the same, 
taking with bliss, 
and causing pain? 
Stalking, ready to pounce, 
taking bloody love, 
and swallowing an ounce, 
or two, of living dove. 
Or perhaps I'll waste away, 
only a parasite, 
with no one on which to prey, 
only myself to bite. 
Held to my cold coffin floor, 
by a heartstabbing stake, 
not touching its blackened door, 
into sunlight I couldn't break. 
But, for now, my toothy love 
has a hold over me; 
yet pushes me away with a glove 
that scrapes so painfully. 

April 24, 1985