The Buxton Vampire.

I hide

with the others,

united in this slaughter house,

trembling and cold.

The predators paw

claws around,

hungrily and angrily

hunting for me.

Like the prey I am,

I am quickly caught.

Hungrily,

he twists my head

and keeps twisting,

without remorse,

until my head is torn off.

My predator gorges

on the liquid from my neck.

It is the sustenance he needs.

I’m tossed,

like a rag doll,

upside down

above his head

with his chapped lips

pressed against my neck.

Sucking,

with his teeth on my skin,

he drinks so savagely

that some trickles down

the side of his mouth

and the mountain

of his neck

to the stop sign

that is his shirt.

I am grasped at,

squeezed

and then crushed

in his calloused hand.

I am thrown to the floor,

like litter,

as the last bits of air

and liquid

trickle out of me.

Soon

Mrs. Smith will notice my carcass,

empty and crushed.

She will shake her head,

tut,

pick me up

and take me out

to be recycled.

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One response to “The Buxton Vampire.

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