{Originally written in 2020.}
Thy darkness lingers close. Thy shadows danced on the glass.
Hearken… the nervousness that I'd felt was painstakingly horrible.
The nervousness crushed my ribs…my breath, to where I thought I very might as well drown in my own thoughts.
From my place at my own sleeping quarters, I saw such a sight.
There at thy door was a woman. She was no more than 20.
"Anyone?" Asked she.
Thine eyes twinkled.
Her face was red -- red with the blood surging through thou's veins.
I licked my lips and let my tongue roll over my fangs.
I have a disease. Thy disease starts with a v. Thou who have the disease, shalt consume thy blood of humans.
I approached the door, opened it, and smiled. "Come in thy mistress." I would feast greatly tonight.
YOU ARE READING
Shiver
Poetryꜱʜɪᴠ·ᴇʀ /ˈꜱʜɪᴠƏʀ/ ᴠᴇʀʙ (ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ᴏʀ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀʟ) ꜱʜᴀᴋᴇ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟʟᴀʙʟʏ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʀᴇꜱᴜʟᴛ ᴏꜰ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴄᴏʟᴅ, ꜰʀɪɢʜᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴇxᴄɪᴛᴇᴅ. -- Short stories and poetry that heavily revolve around grief, death, and mental illness.
