closet coffin: in or out?

Solitary shadow shelter, he secures his lips to my neck

Sleeping still: softening, stiffening, shuddering silently.

Calm, gentle. He suckles my skin like a newborn calf.

I wake late, a wine-red wound decorating my throat.

Maybe by tonight, the space will be clear so he can 

Restake his place. A love-bite tattoo forever there.

How much of it will he let me show the world?

Anti-Edward Cullen: blood-stained-sex obsessed,

Freshly turned and curious. Vampirism looks best

On pale, skinny men. He’s used to avoiding the sun

And its synergetic spotlight. 

He’s angry I relish in its warmth. 

Avoidant, fearful of light. He’s nocturnal, thus. 

I sleep as the sun groggily wakes. He’s nocturnal, thus. 

I saw him once. Slicing the throat of a pig,

Lips to her neck. His smile didn’t falter 

When he caught me staring. Was I

Scared? Not surprised, at the very least.

It’s hard to pinpoint sentiment in the thorny

Thickness of traumatic experience, in the molten

Aroma of blood. He smiled, still. Buzzing, silent.

One day I’ll find him nailed stiff to the floor of

A coffin. Wooden stake set still through his heart,

Breaking a rib or two upon impact.

I wonder who will be saddest for his passing:

Me or the pig? Who deserves to feel saddest?

Reminiscing, I will find a splinter warmly stuck

To my skin; scarring, scaly, red with blood.

About the Author

Allison Hendershot revisited several poems from her time at UArts and edited them to fit her current style. In doing so, she realized how much she's grown as an artist and hopes Quiddity readers enjoy what she's written!