Some men say I am a duplicitous vampire, with an accelerated heart rate. A starving doll, with a tedious lunacy. An adolescent wolf, loyal to the darkness and its king. The truth is, they may be right.
Why must I give my feelings an exaggerated acknowledgment? I long to create, at all times. Art does not exist because of misery, but in spite of it. Heartaches steals the pen, and silences expression.
The Corpse tells me he misses me, longs to be in my arms, dreams of pressing his lips into mine. And I think I want blinding city lights, dense fog in lonely roads, high winds in the afternoon. Not Joseph. Not his long fingers, awkwardly wrapped around hands that can no longer stand the touch of his skin.