All hail the vermillion WE: our mingling is absolute. Twin faces of hunger, silver in our beauty. Vampires of the sacred heart, hosting a blood orgy of the damned. Curse the stuff, already cooling, already clogging, but still precious drug that injects the most crimson high of all: life itself, in all its coagulated black gory. Heaven ever after, in the speed shivers of evaporating hallucination. You are the girl with the black hole eyes and i am your stillborn sister. We suck the same hypodermic treat, recycling the desperation in our souls. Drawing forth the sugar that sizzles in a bow of explosions across your cheek, that we draw the signs of sacrifice in with vibrating fingers. I follow the tributary up your arm with suddenly dry tongue, provoked and wanting, but knowing how easy it is to suck that little hole of yours sere. And then i'd never be able to drink again. Don't tremble: i like to think of you as made of marble, a work of human art that defeats nature even as it celebrates it. And now that cold stone weeps warmly, a dark miracle promulgating a sticky new faith.
In your smug pout i see every daughter of Lilith, that demon's concubine whose barren womb can never be christened, and in whose honor have built an endless string of cold temples full of hungry idols to which men of every race have been all too anxious to offer oblation. Bored by your mocking death rituals before they're complete, you are a changeling weaned on fairy tales in which everyone comes to bad ends, and only the monster is beautiful. Yes, you are beautiful. You are eternal, if only in men's gazes. But i am not afraid, for by your cruel gleaming example you have awoken and provoked the anti-divine in me as well, the demiurge towards a career of immolations. An angel happily damned by your side, we shall drink ourselves til the end of time.
Carmilla comes to visit me on the 13th of every month. She first makes love to me on the cellar's dirt floor, cutting both my wrists and then clamping them together with the sticky paste of their blood and her saliva now turning to cement hardening to shackles that she draws above my head. As my pulse slows she convulses and comes, a wolf with a weeping cunt. It is the most simple of our games.
In my favourite fantasy, i am Elizabeth Bathory's first victim, Countess and whore tenderly exchanging blood virginities, the sacrifice of giving up her life made by the knowledge in those last conscious seconds that a madwoman and serial killer will idolize her forever as First, as with tender speculation and wide eyes the countess oversees that the mean twice-solf flesh is hung and drained until marbled like the finest meat, even as her expression of sad orgasm at the moment of death sinks forever deeply into a hungry black heart chosen to power a macabre reign that will inspire myth and history. Much of history is determined by whores, i always think as i come.