Your common, garden-variety vampire
is not seasonal.
In fact he’s available all year round
like canned asparagus, or an onion or,
He’s local, and perplexingly free-range,
despite many women having previously reported his criminal activities.
The vampire has many associates
who are prepared to provide glowing testimonials
about his gentle nature
and community outreach programs.
He can be difficult to pick out of a crowd.
His method subsists on the basis
of how effectively he conceals
(He prefers the arrangement where he finds you.)
The vampire is unlikely to kill you outright.
He enjoys the security of a regular blood supply,
but his demand increases in direct proportion
to the development of your bleeding capabilities.
You didn’t even notice his parasitoid feeding habits until your anemia was chronic and you started lying to all of your friends and family.
The vampire persists
until you become a wrong rubbery balloon-animal version of yourself,
leaking hydrogen and profound experiences of depression in your local supermarket
until you’re crying extravagantly about cereal, Palestine
and the concept of swans
until you wish you had the motivation and self discipline required
to lie down at an intersection and wait for a middle aged commuter to kill you
The vampire might proceed to tell you that you’re:
Don’t you understand you’re making him look bad?
(you crazy bitch)
Where did all your blood go?
Because it isn’t where you left it,
and he keeps trying to hide all those bloodstained sheets
in your laundry basket.
But if you’re reading this, you’re still here,
bruised and tender and full of the teeth that he left in you
and when you’re ready you can use them
to cut his fucking head off.