The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

(4. The Heart
14:14 Dec 15 2009
Times Read: 542

I don't know why I continue to write. The words they come very easily at times and otheres they remain very much buried in my heart. What heart I have; I mean in the spoken ways of the poets and the musicians; of course my heart still beats logically, viably. I honestly, cannot say I love it. For I don't. I simply tolerate it. I cannot help it. The heart is approximately the size of a person's fist, the hollow, cone shape thing weighs less than a pound. A small pound, something so powerful, so weak, and who could ever love such a thing?



I want to submerse myself in something. Something real and full. Something not as empty as me. I cannot explain exactly how it feels. Imagine filling a pretty vase with water and the water keeps escaping and escaping, with no hope for it to retain it. Why? There is a large unseen scar. (Can you not see? You claim love for me and yet...how can you not see these scars? How can you possible think them beautiful?)





Dear Isobel, December 15

For over six months have I been the solitary wandered, and neglected you, failed to write to you of my ever present affection for you. But why should I be able to write of something I no longer fully possess? I lose it and often lose myself in this cruel, unjust macrosm. And yet, as I lose myself it is equally in an affection nearly love.



Darling, could it be possible I'm recalling such human weakness? That I could be wanting and yearning for something, that since my conception, I knew I was not destined to have? This is such a cruel thing, love...such a cruel thing to desire someone to stroke these ugly organ with tenderness and breathe passion into its empty chambers.



It is cruel, so unphantomly cruel.



Affectionate & Displaced,

Adoles

(3. Isobel
03:59 Dec 13 2009
Times Read: 567

How tragic! How utterly sad that even after all the silence I have given to you, I still hear the annunciations of your voice. I still ache to have you hear my words and understand how much you mean to me. My dearest Isobel, if I could write like Beethoven as he spoken to his immortal beloved and spoke it so that it is as beautiful as it is pathetic, then I would! My dearest Isobel!if only how Napoleon might speak to Josephine and tell her right at that moment how no victor is sweeter than her, is there any need for me to tell you I would.



My sweetest, I do suffer. Beneath the most hideous circumstances.

I love wrong and when I do it is not enough. I love but when I do there is none that understand it so. Only you. I am so sorry to have abandoned you after so long. (I hate they have all the words of the world and I have so little):



Dear Isobel, April 28

I am as untitled as my latest poems will be. Or as the existence of my love. I am sure you know these things by now; pointless dreams that come as heavy winged creatures with long mouths and sad eyes and those nights I stare at pink walls, for they desperately need a new coat, or wallpaper that won't peel when I pick at it.

No matter the mundane things, the unmade bed, soft vocalizations of Billie Holidae; never mind the terrible sobs that might arise and shake the entire house at odd hours. My heart has decided to curl from it's dark tomb and sigh itself into existence and spill all confessions, unspoken, unnamed. I refuse to look at the words I write; for they are longing and envious for your voice, the flawless way the ugliest word becomes beautiful.

After this storm passes, I will be silent. And not myself. But I will hope you call.

I hope I still reach you from afar as, I am not long poetic, these winds are too harsh and smell of some failure, and do not deserve to caress you. Neither do these rains that spill as my soul.

Yet, I yearn to be you as three shades of blue.



Love, Adoles





&







Dear Isobel, April 30

It has been a while since I picked up the pen to write of anything other than the milkiness of the sky in April. I wanted to tell you of all the things that happened this week, but now, it is rather trivial, the things whispered from the mouths of children. I do, sometimes, write a letter my nameless, and I am not sure if you are that one or someone else; regardless you and I share an intimacy not dared shared by any other. But I laugh, for it is better not to cry over these dark comedies.

I can hear you while you whisper these words, as you ask all questions. I can answer somedays, and today, maybe.

It has taken me three days to construct this and even longer to gather the courage: I am not dead. I still breathe the same stale air through a recycled mouth; I write down the progression of the wall cracks which form names. They are two that can break my heart, thick black lines like abyss.

From fear, I cannot pronounce either.



(I spill I spill I spill)

(2. The Dark
23:26 Dec 12 2009
Times Read: 582




The most dreaded topic I would ever think to disgust. Myself. Ah, were to begin? It would be simple to just say all the things I am and the things I'm not but life isn't that simple with its black and white lack of vibrancy, but its shades of gray and the spectrum of colors in between.



I first became intrigued with a dark aspect of life when I was younger. I can't tell you it was a certain event that sparked it—I can only say that since my mind had blossomed into even accepting it, I've sought it out. I've invited to, to a degree. And the interest of vampires, well, that didn't begin until my thirteenth (or so) when I watched Interview with A Vampire. There was something about the famous Lestat de Lioncourte that interested me—and yes, I've seen as these versions of our perceived vampyres but there was nothing quite like sadistic little bastards like Lestat. I hated the romantic views as Twilight; unrealistic, as one thing, but there was the essence of it that was missing, the most vital point. The danger. The eroticism. The darkness.



And it was always that sense of prey/predator that attracted me. Later as I grew to this tender age of mine, I became interested in such acts as BDSM. Though I have never practiced anything of the sort, I am still interested. I think it would be a wonderful experience to be the bottom—naturally I'm fierce, and untamed, but sexually, I think I would be a submissive and pleasing partner. And to have a master that would be both cruel and kind—that I need.



I start to write now of my own vampires. Of course they still blasphemy god, some fear him, some mock him and take his role as they see fit. Of course they have infatuations with humans and they have 'Sabbaths'. My vampires can't fuck. They can't walk into the sun. They can't survive off anything aside from human blood. They are pure animalistic things, and yes, they are sensuous. They are the realm beyond humanity. They are nostalgic, they are progressive, they revert, they fight. They are things we aren't.

(1. The Bastards
06:38 Dec 12 2009
Times Read: 593

I never put much faith into these things -- disappointment is swift to follow. Earlier this morning I found myself unable to sleep as usual, the anxiety and depression eating at me. You'd think something would give and one or the other would drain my body of its energy -- apparently not. My mind was racing as usual. I thought to write. I thought to write something of the sort:



"I remember standing against the Jupiter tree with the skirt raised to my hips. I became a long sigh and watched your eyes as they sought me like a long sigh. Several nights when we breathed together, it was a quick pit fuck, and then that was the last time we had ever found ourselves on that hill. I never came back. I never was un-mad again."



I can write this now. And when I do, it could sound possibly beautiful. Then as I saw it in my head, as I could taste the heat of his mouth on mine, I knew it was unforgivable. I could almost feel the firmness of his fingers against the undercurve of my thigh. God, it felt lovely.



And then, in the night when my eyes feel very heavy, and I think I can finally get to sleep, he slips into my thoughts. It's like a murmur in across a room or the wind slipping through the grass. I recall words that have nestled deep within my mind and they are called forth front:



'I hope things are good'

'Sarah survived the surgery'

'I'll make love to her when she comes home'

'It's not that you weren't enough...'

'I just didn't feel complete with you'



These words hurt, you see, burned inside the fleshy expanse of your torso. It burns like a bitch and screams for you to feel it. So I got up, I stretched long and hard in the dark room and debated turning on the lights to see. I thought of stepping over the books that crashed over the night table and stacked on the side of the bed; I moved over these mountains of stories, and pull the bundle of letters from on top of my dresser. His words, they were all from one single letter of twenty-three he was written. The other twenty-two I burned as ugly sons of bitches, and I dared those little bastards of dreams to come for me again.