The thing we used to speak of so late into the evening,
the thing we used to say until we had ourselves believing,
the thing we kept repeating and repeating and repeating
until we forgot:
Well, I remembered.
I remembered what we are –
and what we are not.
We are not
the secrets that we keep, or
the chiming of the third hour before dawn, or
the claiming of familiar ground as new –
not brilliant, not Brazilian, not branching, not blue.
We are definitely not
the idea of what we are, and
we are definitely not
what we think we aren’t.
We are – well,
a vampire on a misty moonless night,
a creature in the closet of a small child;
living proof that death is worse than life,
beast and barbarian with blood made wild.
We are a ghost, a haunting, a curse of the moon,
a rotting spirit drifting from an empty tomb.
We are a ghoul, stinking flesh rising in an empty room,
an affront to bedtime stories, blackest boon.
We are dead,
but we haven't always been.
I used to feel the warmth under your skin;
When was the last we left anything unsaid,
the last time we stopped it all and went to bed?
What thoughts we sin, the words we speak have been.
We are undead, because we've lived before,
a quiet conversation, now a roar.