I’m Running Out of Time

Hey, you.

Yes, you. Come over here.

Now listen carefully, because you see – I’m running out of time.

Don’t you laugh at me and ruffle my hair like I’m kidding. I am serious as death right now.

I’m sorry. I thought I’d have more time because things were going along brilliantly and I was feeling so happy. I even started sleeping at night again. I felt absolutely wonderful.

But then I started waking up with the bruises and the nose bleeds, and I know that something’s not right.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to die. Not by a long shot. Only good people die young, anyway. So yes, you won’t be entirely rid of me, but I won’t be here anymore anyway.

I just wanted to tell you that it’s been great, this thing we’ve had, but it’s time for it to be over. It’s been doomed from the start anyway. You’re too good, too kind, too awesome…and I’m not. I am the opposite of everything that you are.

Don’t say anything. I know, I know what you’ve been thinking and I know what I’ve been reading between the lines. You like me, and it’s horrible of me to cut you down this way, but I can’t bring myself to say it in person.

If it’s any consolation, I feel the same way about you. It’s just…it’s not meant to be, okay? Some things, no matter how wonderful they are or how right they feel, are not meant to happen.

I am leaving, and in a sense I am saving you from being involved with me.

Now I need you to do a few things for me.

First, I want you to be free. Don’t spend any more of your time thinking about me, because you deserve all the good things in life, and I’m not one of them.

Secondly, I want you to be happy. Live, laugh, love. You are worthy of only the most joyous experiences, of the most marvellous people. Don’t let my memory hold you back.

And third, give me your blessing. If, in the future, we happen to meet again, I want it to be delightful reunion. I don’t want us to awkwardly turn away, pretending we didn’t see each other. I don’t want anxiety and dread. I would want us to be happy to see each other again. Please, at least grant me that.

I’m doing this because you’ve told me about all you want to do in life, all the things you plan to accomplish, and I want you to do all of them. Right now you’re spending too much time on me – which is flattering, but is doing nothing good to you at all. I’m trying to help you.

Lastly, please be okay. Whatever happens in life, now and in the future, I will always, always want you to be fine.

It was absolutely wonderful getting to know you. But now I have to go.



Blood and Strawberry Wine

I’ve never been a committed person in my too-long existence. 

I’m more of a drifter, cruising from one town to the other, assuming a new identity with each new address. Most people would find my lifestyle exhausting, but for me it was fun, interesting and convenient.

Oftentimes, I’d suddenly feel my spark of wanderlust ignited from within and I’d pack up and leave town, one hand on the steering wheel and the other scrolling through Google Maps, looking for the next quick fix.

Sometimes it’s not so random. Sometimes I’d follow a certain trail of sparkles in the air, knowing that it would take me to a place with bakeries and patisseries and sweet-shops that would keep me fed, with quaint-looking streets and houses that I could paint and photograph, with soft throats and wrists that would soothe the burning in my parched throat.

This time, the shimmer that floated in the air led me to a mountain town that grew strawberries and cherries as their main crop. The moment I drove into Main Street, my senses were assaulted by the fruity, sugary sweetness and I knew that I had found a new home.

The white bakery near the park served me strawberry cinnamon rolls with a flat white latte. I consumed it, feeling the sugar dissolve on my tongue and invade my bloodstream. They had a HELP WANTED sign posted on the window, and I plucked it off before heading to the manager’s office in the back.


My new house was near the edge of town. It was a small, two-bedroom building, but it had charming eaves, a pristine white picket fence and a lush garden surrounding it. I set out votive candles everywhere and unpacked my belongings by candlelight, indulging myself by dipping big red cherries in a white chocolate fondue.

I first saw the old Victorian house during one of my late-night walks. It was a large, sprawling house and had Christmas lights blazing every night of the year. The moment six o’clock rolled around, the house transformed into a fairyland of blinking white light.

I had taken to trespassing through the strawberry fields at night to stand in front of that house,  watching the lights, camera in hand. Its weight was comforting in the cold. 


The owner started coming out after my third time. I was a bit worried that he would tell me to get lost, but he never did. At first he would just stand by the window and watch me, hidden behind thick velvet drapes. 

After a few nights, he got used to me and abandoned his post behind the curtains, standing right in front of the window and smiling at me, his black hair moving slightly in the breeze. 

We never talked, but he finally invited me in.

He has bruised, bleeding lips and I think he’s trying to tempt me.

We talk about random topics, jumping from subject to subject over our cups of tea, but I’m distracted and my eyes keep straying back to his lips.

I wonder if he bit them?

I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose? 

He’s telling me a story about his job, something about volunteering overseas to help the less fortunate. I listen half-heartedly, my gaze trained on his mouth like someone hypnotized. Sometimes he stops to take a sip of his chai, and he runs his tongue over his lips afterwards. 

He asks me a question and I answer in length, while he sits and stares and nibbles worriedly at the corner of his lip. His teeth break the skin and a thin trickle of red stains the tip of his tooth. 

I didn’t notice that I was leaning forward until I realize that I’m only a few centimeters away and his breathing has become rapid. I can hear his heartbeat hammering in his chest.

He waits.

I close the distance and start sucking on his lower lip.

His blood is sweet.


Afterwards, I spent part of every night with him. 

I’d read in bed and he’d write poems on my back and sometimes I’d draw on the surfaces of his too-pale skin. 

But mostly we’d just lay in bed and indulge in each other, drunk on blood and strawberry wine.


It was a pleasant arrangement and I’d sneak out in the morning, tired and bruised but with my lips red with his sweet, sweet blood. But he had begun to get attached to me, and with it brought a feeling of unease. I was sure I saw him a couple of times during my shift at the bakery, hunched behind other people, his eyes watchful and on me.

I knew I had to leave town that night.

He knew. 

The moment I stepped inside his door, I smelled the trepidation, ripe and thick in the air.

He was holding a gun with his finger on the trigger, and a thin sheen of perspiration gleamed dully on his forehead.

“I can’t let you go,” he whispered. “Take me with you.”

I smile at him lovingly, trying to work my compulsion on him. But his eyes are crazed behind their outward calmness, and I know that no amount of compulsion would work on him now. 

“What you’re feeling is all an illusion,” I say, trying to reason with him. “My saliva produces a chemical that drugs you and makes you feel euphoric. It’s not permanent – you’ll recover after a week or two.”

“I don’t want to recover!” He shrieks. “If you leave me, I’ll die. So I’m going to have to kill you unless you stay here with me.”

“Don’t be like that,” I beg him, because I don’t want to kill him. 

His eyes are filled with tears. He has gone completely white, and the red wounds on his throat and wrists blaze starkly. The wounds, made by my teeth and loved by my lips. 

He raises the gun to eye-level, and his hands are no longer shaking. His eyes have lost their last vestige of sanity.

I shake my head sadly and smile. 

“Good-bye,” I whisper.

There’s a gunshot, and to both of us, it’s like a clap of vicious thunder.


I leave town that night, my belly full of blood and my eyes full of tears. I still taste him on my lips and I sigh with regret. 

Why does it have to end like this every time?

But I don’t have time to wonder for long – I see a faint trail of sparkles in the air, and feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth.

There will be a new town.

There will be bakeries to feed me with sweets, picturesque houses to watch, and soft, warm flesh to feed from.

And maybe, I’ll have another chance to lie supine in bed, drunk on blood and strawberry wine. 


Disclaimer: Photograph credited to Google Images.

Shitty Poem # 2

you’re so quiet

your smiles are spare

your laughter rare

i watch

your throat contracting while you swallow

your hands are strong

your lips are plump

perfect for biting

i stare at the back of your neck

where your haircut ends

and your skin begins

and all i can think of

is skimming over it

with sharp teeth

and feel you wince

and hear you breathe

but none of that happens

we stay apart

and smile at each other

polite and distant

did you want to hold my hand?

maybe i imagined it

but i really wanted you to kiss me.

image sourced from Tumblr

This is Goodbye

And there was at least one girl in your grade who never wanted to speak to a boy.
Photo taken from Google Images.
We see each other again three days after our screaming match, and I’m the first to turn away.
It’s strange, being the one to let go this time.
I hear her footsteps stop, followed by a loud sigh. “Wait,” she calls, and I do.
Later on, we’re at the swings and we are enveloped by a sticky, pressured silence. No one is willing to go first, and our eyes dart from one corner of the park  to the other, anywhere really except at each other.
“I guess you probably want an apology, don’t you?” She asks finally. I look at her sideways, and she’s gnawing on her lip and fiddling with her button-down’s collar, the way she does when she’s agitated. I want to grab her hand to make her stop, but I don’t.
“I honestly don’t care anymore,” I say remotely, feeling my eyes cloud over.
Her head snaps up and she looks at me, raw naked fear in gaze. “You can’t mean that,” she half-pleads, stopping the swing with her foot and turning to face me.
I laugh shortly, shaking my head. “Oh, sweetie. I gave up on you a long time ago.”
I stand up to leave but she tugs on my skirt to detain me. I look back at her, take in the flush on her face and the tears that rim her dark, dark eyes and I feel a tiny twinge of something strange, deep in my gut.
“Please,” she cries. “Not like this. I can’t bear it when you’re mad at me.”
“Can’t you?” I ask her in a detached manner. “You seem to have forgotten that we have made a hobby of ignoring each other for the past few weeks.”
“I was mad at you!” She protests. “You don’t have any time for me at all, and yet you’re always with those boys,” she spits out, her tone one of distaste.
“You’re not my only friend,” I tell her tiredly. “Of course I need to spend time with them, too.”
“Well, I don’t want to share you!”
We look at each other, both defiant, both at the breaking point. I know that if I  unleash my anger, I will regret it later.
I sit back down on the swing and pat the space beside me. She sits down gingerly. I put my arms around her and feel her relax against me, and I lean close and press my mouth close to the soft skin just beneath her ear.
“Let me tell you the story of two little girls,” I whisper. “One was small and dark and brooding, while the other was golden and bright and full of light. They grew up side-by-side, finding their way through life together and pulling each other out of harm’s way. They were closer than anyone could ever dream of being–they even kissed and touched and cuddled and touched when they were feeling particularly affectionate.
“But when they were grown, the golden girl changed. The other cried over her bitterly and made her feel guilty. She promised to change — but she never did.”
She shudders, and I feel the tremor in her body as if it had happened in my own.
“What’s going to happen to them now?” She asks in a broken, tear-stained voice.
“This is what’s going to happen,” I hiss sweetly. “I’m going to go away, because it’s not possible for us to exist in the same place at the same time. I’m going to act like I never knew you and reinvent myself without you to hold me back. And I’m going to be happy, and you’re not, because I’m not a horrible friend who flakes out on people like you do.”
She begins to cry, huge sobs wracking her shoulders as she clings to me in desperation. But as she starts to weep and I start to smile, I realize that this is the happiest she has made me in a very long time.