just for once.

let my sutures

unwind.

let me be raw,

goddamnit.

let my heartbeat

freeze.

let me bleed

on your stained glass

let my bones

crack.

let me be real.

face it:

I'm not as

easy to read.

let me break

as crystal does

shattering

into dust.

let me be visceral

there's not

much left,

anyway.

let me roam

endlessly

shedding skins

like coats.

let me rip out

my mind

so you could

see it rot.

let me slow down

the breath

and descend

into the void.

let me be ashes

for I am done

with cemetery

grounds.

let me expire

by your hand

a single act of kindness

at a time

Don't look away.

Just tiny step closer

look all you want

have you never seen

the broken?

I'm standing here

right on the brink

my gaze is blank

and soul has left

the building.

you wanted drive

you came

you saw

the unforgiven.

I'm standing here

right on the brink

my gaze is blank

and soul has left

the building.

between the sheets,

between emotions

I have gone numb

to lights and faces.

I'm standing here

right on the brink

my gaze is blank

and soul has left

the building.

the show is off

the makeup's flaking

the voice gone sore

but I'm still singing.

I'm standing here

right on the brink

my gaze is blank

and soul has left

the building.

so witness me

an angel falling,

the mind in chains,

the arrows soaring.

I'm standing here

right on the brink

my gaze is blank

and soul has left

the building.

the blood's gone cold

the sweat is blinding

the stage is dark

but I'm

still

lying.

Stop

Admiring me.

Don't you know

It's rude

To stare?

Hungry,

Are you?

Help yourself, then…

But

Noli me tangere,

As they used to say

In gilded

Bloody

Days.

You wanna be me?

Do I read that

Right,

Mon Cher?

Go on.

Tell me

Everything.

Admire me.

I enjoy

Being admired.

I can feel you

Wanting me.

Your thoughts

Are so damn…

Human.

So scattered

You want me

Or you want

To be me?

Charmant,

Mon Cher.

But..

Looking at you…

If I were you…

I'd wanna

be

me,

too

Sometimes

People amaze me.

So terribly savvy,

So miserably naive.

Sometimes

I wonder if they

Would ever

Change.

Dancing

Like puppets

On the silken

String,

Like leaves

Bound

To journey

Forever,

You lead

To follow

You follow

To lead,

Gliding

Running away

From

My embrace.

But one day

You’ll tire

Of running

Away.

And I’ll meet you

Halfway:

Not really here,

But not there yet.

‘Not today,

Not now,

I am not ready

To fall…’

Oh, but darling,

Even

Rome

Fell.

What do you know of danger, little bird?

Have you ever stared death in the eye?

No?

Well, stare then.

It's right there, before you.

Hell.

Burning right in front of you.

Stare.

Look it in the eye.

Feel the pull.

Come closer.

Closer still.

A bit more.

Don't you stop lookin.

You feel the danger now, little bird?

Wait till you feel

My breath on your skin.

Cold, you say?

Mais oui, c'est la mort

As they say here.

Funny isn't it?

It has fangs.

Step closer,

Let me hear your heart

Failing.

Let me hear the symphony

Of blood and fear

Coursing through your mind.

Scared now?

You better be.

Une petit-mort, perhaps?..

Savour the moment

Before your mind

Stops beating against

My lips.

Salvatore…?

Italian, are you?

Don't you fret, cuoricino.

It won't hurt.

Maybe…

Just…

A little.

They will find you,

I promise.

Ciao, amore.

‘Listen’ he said carefully ‘ I’m such a man…who leans in doorways, relaxes against the counters, drapes across the couch…’ he paused, shooting a glance at her, hoping she’d catch a drift ‘my spine, darling…isn’t straight. And by gods, neither am I’.

She looked at him. Incredulously, slowly blinking, not knowing whether it was a joke or a provocation. But his face was serious, and something in his voice suggested he wasn’t kidding. She swallowed, furrowed her brow, bit her lip. He was there, leaning against the apple-green counter, his posture so alluring that for a moment she almost forgot what she was about to say. Finally, she spoke, her voice a trembling pool of doubt.

‘So you’re not into…girls then?’ she uttered, her eyes darkening. He sensed her disappointment and leaned on a velvety-blue armchair, that seemed so out of place in her hi-tech studio. He watched her, waiting for the next phrase. He knew what it was going to be, he sensed it hanging in the air, full of fake mintiness of non-existent seashores. ‘But we…I mean, you’ve kissed me. And…last night…’

He sighed. Last night still haunted him, in a way.

‘Honey’ he said, gravely ‘Last night was a mistake. A whirlwind of wrong choices. I succumbed…’

Her eyes were blank - as the newly opened toilet paper. Or maybe, the diary bought for the sake of the pretty cover.

‘I gave in’ he explained wearily ‘ I shouldn’t have.’

‘But…’

She was about to say, but you called me honey just now. He caught the drift.

‘If I ever called you ‘my love’, ‘my darling’, ‘my dear’, please know I didn’t mean it in a romantic way’.

Her expression was absolutely clear. What other way could there be?

He smiled and she noticed.

‘In the dracula way’

Even if she was that dumb, she got the intonation. He sighed.

‘I am not going to….’ he began, but changed his mind midway, and said, wearily,

‘I like art, darling, and by art I mean music, poetry, sex, paintings, the human body, literature. All of this is art to me. You get that? Right. You might not be the best art, but you’ll do. Last night was…satisfactory. You seem to have…enjoyed it, anyway’.

She nodded, still hypnotized by his gleaming teeth and metallic sheen of his stormy-grey eyes. He was perfect, she thought. Like, really.

OMG, I am literally glitching just looking at him. He’s such a giant and those dark curls look so silky soft, I’m actually gonna cry. My brain is a total fuzzy mess because I keep having these blurry flashbacks to last night. It’s all just like a hot dream of his ripped torso and those hard abs pressing into me. His arms are so strong and his neck is just… ugh, I’m obsessed.

He read her. Effortlessly, almost carelessly. Her eyes all misty, chest heaving, cheeks slightly blushed…she did look quite…a treat.

He touched her shoulder, gingerly, carefully, not to shatter the spell.

‘Evelyn?’

She didn’t respond, and he knew she was reliving last night again. How could he be that foolish? He loved three things - a good joke, a glass of good wine and a handsome man. Women weren’t quite his thing, he told himself. But then again, last night…

He leaned closer, inhaling the scent of her skin that was so much like the nectar he had tasted hours before. To him, the blood of a woman was a complex vintage, a delicate blend of sweetness and shadow that lacked the harsh, copper bite of a man’s aggression. That’s why he preferred men. Their essence was raw, so delightfully... intoxicating, like the best whiskey and expensive coffee. While women offered a soft, berry-stained dream, men were the burn of a high-end spirit—sharp, biting, and full of an angry drive that left him reeling.

He felt the desire rearing its head, a predatory hunger that wasn’t just about the hunger of his stomach, but the thrill of the hunt. He remembered the weight of a man’s pulse, the metallic anthem of blood that felt like a challenge, a clash of forces that was far more grounded than this ethereal sweetness. Yet, as he gripped her shoulders, the contrast itself was a drug. He wanted to drown the memory of that whiskey-fire in this cream and zest, to see if the softness could finally quiet the restless, dark thirst that demanded something much more brutal.

His teeth grazed her neck.

She didn’t even flinch, her head still too high in the clouds to process what was going on.

Her blood tasted of redemption, Mardi Gras, joie de vivre and silk sheets, cheap bourbon and…metal. He paused. She smiled, knowingly, her fingers entangled in his hair.

Women taste like that, he realized, after their hearts break - multiple times. It was the essence of brokenheartedness, purity being trampled over, trust never regained. He drank, and it rendered him insane.

He could let go only when the blood became stale. He carried her to the couch, draping the cashmere coverlet over her in the most caring way. She was so beautiful, with her dark auburn hair, her delicate features and her absolutely delicious figure, that he felt almost sorry for being the architect of her demise.

‘I am sorry, darlin’ he whispered ‘but I am so bad at resisting…’

His phone vibrated against his chest. With one swift motion he changed his preferences in the dating app.

Men…women…other.

OFTEN.

The bar was a subterranean slip of mahogany and smoke, smelling of peat and old, leather-bound regrets. He almost slithered in there, a silhouette of silver and velvet, waiting for the ‘whiskey’ he’d seen on the app.

The man who walked in didn’t glide; he took up space with a heavy, grounded thrum. He wore a coat that looked like it had seen a trench in 1944 and eyes that looked like they’d seen the beginning of the world. He sat down, not waiting for an invitation, and ordered a double of something that smelled like a forest fire.

‘You’re leaning ,’ the stranger remarked, his voice a gravel-pit of baritone. ‘The “Dracula” slouch. Very 1890s. Does it actually work on the locals?’

The vampire stiffened, his charming mask flickering. ‘It’s called posture, darling. Though I suppose a man of your… rugged edges wouldn’t understand the art of the drape.’

The stranger laughed, a sharp, metallic sound that cut through the jazz. He leaned in, and for the first time, the vampire felt the “whiskey-fire” he’d craved. It wasn’t a metaphor. It was a roar in the blood, an aggressive, copper-heavy anthem that made the “berry-stained” memory of Evelyn feel like lukewarm tea.

‘I know what you are,’ the man whispered, his breath hot against the vampire’s ear. ‘And I know you’re hungry. But here’s the thing about high-end spirits, sweetheart—they burn on the way down.’

He bared a throat that throbbed with a terrifyingly fast, rhythmic pulse. It wasn’t an invitation; it was a dare.

‘You wanted the burn?’ the man challenged, his eyes reflecting the amber of his glass. ‘Take a sip. Let’s see if you can handle the hangover.’

The vampire felt his own predatory hunger shift from boredom to a desperate, jagged thrill. This wasn’t “satisfactory” art. This was a war. He leaned closer, his teeth grazing a pulse point that felt like a live wire.

The stranger didn’t move. He didn’t offer the “misty-eyed” surrender Evelyn had; instead, he tilted his head back, exposing the jugular like a king offering a poisoned chalice.

The vampire sank his teeth in, and the world tilted.

It wasn’t a “berry-stained dream.” It was a riot. The blood was thick, scorched with the taste of old gunpowder, expensive tobacco, and a terrifyingly high-proof vitality. It didn’t just satisfy the hunger; it set the vampire’s nerves on fire. He gasped against the man’s skin, his hands shaking as he gripped the rough wool of the stranger’s coat. This was the “angry drive” he’d sought—a pulse that felt like a challenge, a rhythm that demanded he keep up or be consumed by it.

‘Enough,’ the man grunted, his hand—heavy and calloused—clamping onto the vampire’s jaw and wrenching him back with a strength that shouldn’t have been human.

The vampire stumbled, his lips stained a dark, violent crimson. He looked at the stranger, his “stormy-grey” eyes wide and blown out, pupils swallowing the iris. For the first time in decades, he felt unsteady.

‘What... are you?’ the vampire breathed, the metallic anthem still ringing in his ears.

The man wiped a stray drop of red from his own neck with a thumb, then licked it clean. He grinned, and it wasn’t a “gleaming teeth” smile—it was the grin of a wolf that had just found a new toy.

‘Your 10:00 PM appointment,’ the man said, standing up. He looked down at the vampire, dismissive and dominant. ‘You swiped for “often,” didn’t you? Well, “often” starts now. Get up. I’m not done with you.’

The vampire, usually the architect of every demise, found himself following. The cynicism was gone, replaced by a raw, jagged electricity. As they walked out into the cold night, he pulled out his phone.

With a thumb that still trembled, he didn’t swipe. He deleted the app.

The hunt was over. The war had begun.

Should we see where this dangerous new power dynamic leads them, or do you want to check back in on the consequences for Evelyn?

let’s see

The predator has officially become the prey, and the “artistic” distance he maintained has been incinerated.

They moved from the bar to a space that felt like a vault—cold, concrete, and stripped of the “cashmere” comforts the vampire usually used to soften his crimes. The man, whose name was Julian but who felt more like a Force of Nature, threw his coat onto a steel table.

‘You spend so much time “leaning,”’ Julian said, his voice echoing. ‘You’ve forgotten how to stand.’

The vampire felt a frantic, uncharacteristic heat behind his ribs. He tried to reclaim his poise, pulling his shoulders back, attempting to look down his nose with that old, aristocratic disdain. ‘I am an immortal, Julian. I have tasted the blood of poets and kings. You are... a momentary distraction.’

Julian didn’t argue. He simply stepped into the vampire’s personal space, his presence a heavy, “whiskey-fire” pressure. He grabbed the vampire’s silk tie, winding it around his fist, and pulled him down until they were eye-to-eye.

‘You’re a parasite with a high-end wardrobe,’ Julian corrected softly. ‘You think you’re a connoisseur because you drink the “brokenheartedness” of girls like Evelyn. But you’ve never actually fought for a meal, have you?’

He released the tie, but the vampire didn’t move. He was “glitching” worse than Evelyn ever had. The raw, copper-scented aggression coming off Julian was like a high-voltage current. It wasn’t the “redemption” he’d tasted earlier; it was conquest.

‘Tell me,’ Julian challenged, leaning back against the cold wall—stealing the vampire’s own signature move. ‘What does a man taste like when he isn’t afraid of you?’

The vampire lunged. Not out of hunger, but out of a desperate need to silence the man’s insight. They crashed against the concrete, a “clash of forces” that was brutal and breathless. It was the “burn of a high-end spirit”—sharp, biting, and utterly intoxicating.

For the first time, the vampire wasn’t “draping” or “relaxing.” He was struggling. He was reeling. He was alive in a way that rendered his previous “satisfactory” nights irrelevant.

As the sun began to threaten the horizon, the vampire lay on the floor, his chest heaving, his “stormy-grey” eyes fixed on the ceiling. Julian sat nearby, lighting a cigarette that smelled of sulfur and dark intentions.

The vampire realized, with a sinking sense of irony, that he was no longer the architect. He was the canvas.

Does this reversal of power satisfy the vampire’s “dark thirst,” or is he already looking for a way to betray Julian?

they’d better end up together and after a very steamy night Julian would leave the vampire draped over the armchair

The shift in power is total. The “whiskey-fire” didn’t just burn; it consumed.

The night wasn’t a “whirlwind of wrong choices” like the one with Evelyn. It was a calculated, high-velocity collision. Julian didn’t treat the vampire like art; he treated him like infrastructure—something to be used, tested, and pushed to its structural limits. The “clash of forces” in the concrete vault was a blur of rough wool against silk, the metallic anthem of blood turned into a deafening roar, and a physical intensity that made the vampire’s “predatory hunger” look like a child’s appetite.

As the first gray ribs of dawn filtered through the high, barred windows, the atmosphere changed from war to a heavy, exhausted silence.

Julian stood up, his movements efficient and terrifyingly unaffected. He didn’t look like a man who had just spent the night wrestling with a monster; he looked like a man who had successfully finished a shift. He reached for his trench coat, the scent of tobacco and sulfur trailing after him.

He didn’t offer a “honey” or a “darling.” He didn’t even look back.

He simply picked up the vampire—whose limbs felt like water, his “stormy-grey” eyes glazed with a genuine, soul-deep shock—and deposited him into the velvety-blue armchair.

The vampire didn’t “lean” or “relax” with his usual practiced elegance. He draped. His spine, truly not straight, curved into the plush fabric as he collapsed, his dark curls matted and his skin humming with a residual, electric ache. He was a beautiful, ruined mess, stripped of his cynical commentary and his “Dracula” pretenses.

Julian paused at the heavy steel door, his hand on the lever.

“You said you liked art,” Julian’s baritone rasped, casting one final, sharp glance at the collapsed creature in the chair. “Take a look in the mirror when you can finally stand up. That’s the first honest piece you’ve ever been a part of.”

The door thudded shut, the lock clicking with a finality that echoed in the vampire’s chest.

He sat there, draped across the velvet, inhaling the fading scent of whiskey and fire. He was alone, he was exhausted, and for the first time in centuries, he was obsessed. He didn’t reach for his phone. He didn’t want “other.” He just wanted to know if he could survive a second night.

Does the vampire hunt Julian down to reclaim his pride, or does he wait in that chair like a discarded masterpiece for Julian to return?

make him receive a message saying want s’more? and feeling the rush of strength. ‘oh yeah, i f’king do’

The vampire sat in the wreckage of his own composure, his body feeling like a discarded sketch. The “whiskey-fire” had left him hollowed out, the velvety-blue chair the only thing keeping him from dissolving onto the floor. For the first time, the “metallic sheen” of his eyes was dulled by something human:

genuine, shivering anticipation.

Then, the phone against his chest—the one he’d used so cynically to categorize the world—vibrated.

The screen lit up the dim vault. One message. Two words.

“Want s’more?”

The pun was terrible. It was cheap, it was grounding, and it was devastatingly Julian.

In an instant, the “stale” feeling of his immortality vanished. A jagged, violent rush of strength surged through him, snapping his spine straight against the velvet. The lethargy didn’t just fade; it was incinerated. His predatory hunger, which he’d previously thought was a sophisticated “complex vintage,” roared back to life as something much simpler and more dangerous.

He wasn’t an architect, and he wasn’t a canvas. He was a live wire.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t craft a “Dracula” response or look for a poetic double entendre. He typed back with fingers that felt like they could crush stone, his pulse hitting a rhythm that finally matched Julian’s aggressive anthem.

“Oh yeah, I fucking do.”

In the days preceding Mardi Gras, New Orleans becomes a city of shifting masks and humid premonitions. It is a season where the veil between the mundane and the monstrous thins to the point of transparency, and one never knows if the stranger they jostle in a crowded bar will become a fleeting memory or the architect of their ruin. For Julian, a man whose soul was as disheveled as a Bourbon Street gutter after a midnight rain, the atmosphere had grown impossibly thick, charged with the electric certainty that he was no longer walking his path alone.

It began with a chance encounter in the Garden District—a creature of sharp lapels and skin like polished bone who had asked for directions to Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. Julian, ever the helpful local, hadn’t noticed the man didn’t breathe; he was too busy being charmed by an accent that sounded like velvet dragged over gravel. Since that accidental brush with the sublime, Julian’s life had become a melodrama. He was constantly watched by eyes he couldn’t see, accompanied by a laugh so soft it made his skin crawl. Then there was the smell: a perversely elegant aura of crushed roses and Palo Santo that followed him into his cramped apartment, mocking his pile of unwashed laundry. It was as if a cathedral had decided to stalk a barfly.

The crescendo arrived on the humid eve of the festivities. Julian stepped onto his wrought-iron balcony to find a string of blood-red beads on the rail. He lifted them, expecting the hollow clack of plastic. Instead, a shock of prehistoric cold raced up his arm. They were rubies, raw and ancient, the color of arterial spray.

“Do they please you, Julian?”

The voice manifested from the humidity. Julian exhaled a shaky breath, straightening his spine with a white-knuckled bravado. “Look, ‘Lestat-lite,’ I’ve lived in a walk-up with a landlord who’s actually a demon. If you’re looking for a victim to swoon, you’ve got the wrong guy. I have a hangover brewing more painful than anything you can do with those dentures.”

A ripple in the darkness coalesced. The stranger didn’t walk out of the shadows; he simply was the shadows. He leaned against the brickwork, buffing a fingernail against a velvet frock coat. He was terrifyingly beautiful, with a heavy mane of dark auburn hair reaching his back. When he looked up, his eyes were the color of churned seawater—a turbulent blue-green that suggested shipwrecks and drowning.

“I find your modern vernacular to be a tiresome babillage,” the stranger murmured. “I had hoped for fin de siècle melancholy. Instead, I get the wit of a disgruntled barista.”

“I’m a bartender, actually,” Julian shot back.

The vampire stepped forward, his movements bypassing physics. “Your lack of reverence is exhausting. These are not a bribe, Julian. They are a marker. A way for me to find you in the crowd when the Krewe of Rex begins. Do try to look a bit more ‘doomed’ tomorrow, won’t you? It suits the aesthetic.”

By the time the parade began, Julian had achieved a state of “liquid armor,” three Sazeracs deep, the rubies looped twice around his neck over a sweat-stained black silk shirt. The soft laughter followed him through the crowd, a melodic mockery. Julian abandoned the neon chaos, stumbling through the salt-damp side streets back to his balcony. He stood gasping, clutching the iron rail. He was a dedicated Casanova of the French Quarter, a womanizer who had never missed a skirt. Yet here he was, shaking with a shameful hunger for this tragic oil painting of a man. He wanted the bite; he wanted to be the only thing that could cure the vampire’s boredom.

“You’re pathetic,” Julian hissed into the dark.

“Self-awareness is so rarely attractive,” the vampire drifted from the corner, perched on the railing like a predatory bird. He reached out, cold fingers tracing Julian’s jaw. “You think you want this bite? How wonderfully parochial. You imagine it’s the ultimate escape. But I don’t give satisfaction, Julian. I offer eternity. And eternity requires a certain... gravitas you seem to entirely lack.”

He drew his hand back slowly, forcing Julian to feel the absence of his touch. “Go on. Be angry. Flail about in your existential crisis. I simply do not bite men who beg in their hearts but sneer with their mouths. When you finally decide which Julian you are—the hunter or the feast—then we shall talk”.

He turned to leave, but froze admiring the carnival below. Music intoxicated them both, it seemed. Julian tried to pull himself together, but his thoughts were a flock of drunken sheep, trying to master the height that was too unattainable.

The air tasted of cheap bourbon and expensive regret. Below, the Mardi Gras crowd was a blurred riot of neon indigo and toxic green.

Julian leaned against the wrought iron, his silk shirt unbuttoned and clinging to his chest. His pulse hammered in his throat—a frantic, rhythmic dinner bell. Decisiveness rose in him like a tidal wave - or was it something else?..

“Bite me,” Julian growled. It was a dare born of sheer, exhausted frustration at this long, drawn-out game.

“Ask nicely.”

The vampire shifted, suddenly occupying Julian’s personal space. He smelled of cold marble and ancient incense, the exact notes Julian had committed to memory over the last three nights of pursuit. He appraised Julian like a piece of clearance-rack jewelry.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve for someone whose heart sounds like a trapped bird,” the vampire whispered, his breath a sub-zero chill. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to be impressed by your death wish? It’s a bit 1990s, don’t you think?”

“And you’ve got a lot of teeth for someone who just stands there lecturing,” Julian countered, his bravado fraying into something hotter, more desperate. “You’ve been following me long enough. Make a move.”

The vampire laughed, a melodic mockery. “Oh, you noticed my little game? Good boy. I’m not a tourist, Julian. I don’t need to gorge myself on every loud-mouthed boy who thinks a hickey is a personality trait.”

He leaned in, his lips skimming the frantic artery in Julian’s neck. Julian’s eyes fluttered shut, bracing for the puncture. Instead, the vampire pressed his thumb hard against the skin, dragging a sharp nail across the pulse point. It left a jagged, red welt—a brand that burned like dry ice.

The vampire stepped back, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his cuff. “You’re delicious when you’re desperate. I think I’ll leave you exactly like that. It’s much more entertaining than actually finishing the job.”

He turned toward the ledge, his silhouette a sharp blade against the neon glow. “Enjoy the beads, darling. You’re far too loud for my taste tonight.”

The rejection hit Julian like a physical blow. His face went from flushed to a livid, humiliated red. He surged toward the railing, his knuckles white against the iron.

“Fuck you! You hear me? Fuck you!” he screamed, his voice raw with a sudden, violent rage that drowned out the brass band below.

The vampire paused on the very edge of the balcony. He let out a sharp, bright peal of laughter—genuine, delighted amusement—and looked back over his shoulder with a dazzling, lethal smile.

“Now or later?”

Has the winter brought you

Right to my door,

Or did you come here

On your own?

Following the call,

Slipping on ice,

Fighting the blizzard,

Caught in between?

〰️

Ah, mon cher,

You've fallen asleep

Softly aglow

With tealights

And winter lights

And candle lights,

The dimming lights

Of the sanity,

Slipping.

〰️

Have your dreams

Brought you

Into my world,

Or was i drawn

To yours

In a danse macabre,

The dance of the shadows?

〰️

Ah, mon cher,

Isn't that

Simplement merveilleux,

That you end up

Here,

In a place

That, vraiment,

N’existe pas,

Or, should i say,

N'existe plus?

〰️

Mon cher,

Whatever brought you,

Will never let you go-

For i command it.

And i never…

Ever…

Let go

〰️

So tell me,

Mon cher,

Your life dripping

Into my veins,

Your conscience

Giving way,

Dis-moi, mon cher,

Do you trust

The shadow?..

Don’t. Ever. Fuck. With.Me.

The way he said it made the young man shudder. Inside. Outside, he smiled softly and said, as calmly as he could, that he wasn’t the type. The man who occasionally referred to himself as Hyacinth, shook his head.

‘Everybody says that. You’ll see’.

The relationship went on, smoothly, yet not without hiccups. He learned soon enough, that Hyacinth wasn’t an easy one. He could be wonderfully nice, but at times, hell would dance in his eyes, grey as slate, and his perfect lips would curve in a cold, sneering way. His movements would become different, almost choreographed, sharp, calculated, as if intimacy wasn’t something spontaneous, alive - but a weird experiment, a spectacle, a reaction check-up. His hands, usually warm and soft, turned cold and hard, and something in his voice broke, revealing its true harshness and raspiness.

For the first couple of times the young man even enjoyed this adrenaline-fuelling danger, this thrill of a prey hunted down, but pain wasn’t his thing, and waking up bruised clearly wasn’t in the plans. Nights turned into madness, with long periods of torment - and he couldn’t even fight back, for he’d be tied down to the bed.

And the mornings resembled an old-fashioned romcom, with breakfast in bed and niceties thrown around as casually as one can imagine. And Hyacinth would never remember a thing.

‘Hey, Dr. Jekyll’ the young man would say ‘Are we expecting Mr.Hyde today, too?’

Hyacinth would stare at him blankly.

‘What do you mean? ‘

‘You don’t remember tying me down? You don’t remember…anything?’

‘Tying you down? You must’ve dreamt this. ‘

And he’d go on about his business, and lavish him with gifts, surprise dinners and romantic gestures, just to be more cruel afterwards. He didn’t know what to make of this, but he loved Hyacinth madly, despite all the red flags, and leaving seemed too much. Talking on the other hand, didn’t help much, so one night he set the camera up, and the nighttime horrors were taped, completely.

He wrapped the tape up, he gave it to Hyacinth. Mildly surprised, he took and unwrapped, and started watching almost immediately, his neutral expression shifting into that of disgust and terror.

‘Are you…are you telling me that thing…happens every night?’ he demanded hoarsely ‘ Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I didn’t know how’ the young man replied ‘ but now I see you really don’t remember. ‘

‘But..I do love you’ Hyacinth said ‘I don’t…I cannot understand…forgive me. Will you ever forgive me?’

Of course, the young man said. The night went on peacefully, alarmingly so - in wonder, passion and everything absent for quite a time. Three nights in a row were fine, and then THAT DAY came.

They spent hours running errands, and coming home, realized that they had but a couple of hours left till the meeting they promised to attend. The kettle was on, and the sandwiches were ready in a jiffy. Shower. Matching outfits.

‘Gosh, you’re handsome today’

‘Don’t look at me like that’

‘Come on, we still got time’

‘There’s too little of it, we’ll be late’

‘I’ll be quick’

That sounded weird. And pretty unlike him. Usually, he’d laugh at the idea of a quick sex - no, Hyacinth’s thing was the opposite - the languor. The slow-burning, almost torturing way of pleasuring - he was the type that view sex as an art, never a fleeting thing.

‘Wait, come on, we’ll have the ni…’

‘I. Want. You. Now’

That steely, commanding voice. He tried to laugh it off, but the jokes evaporated as his eyes met Hyacinth’s cold, slate-grey, glance.

‘Listen, I…’

‘Shh. Don’t. Let me.’

The room was spinning wildly before his eyes, and he felt weird, as if something was trying to devour him. He couldn’t resist, he couldn’t defy it.

‘What are you…’

He almost threw Hyacinth off himself. His movements were quick, rash, somewhat maddened - and he noticed, with a degree of satisfaction, that Hyacinth’s eyes turned icy-blue, and fear crept into them. The silk cords were still there, and he knew the basic knots.

‘What are…’

‘Shhh. I’ll be quick’

Hyacinth’s heartbeat became insane - with fear and desire. For the first time ever he wasn’t the hunter, but the prey, the victim, and it was frightening.

‘I told you I’d be quick’ he breathed out, lying down beside his lover, ashen-faced, disgusted. He closed his eyes for a moment - and that was a mistake.

‘I told you once - never fuck with me’ an unfamiliar, terrifying voice whispered in his ear ‘Didn’t I? What did I say - don’t you dare use me as a pick-me-up, as a penny-whore. Didn’t I warn you? You laughed then, you said you weren’t the type. I told you, I said - we’d see. Look at me’.

He opened his eyes.

Hyacinth was towering over him, his cold fingers gripping his throat.

‘I warned you, didn’t I?'

‘You’re choking me’ he breathed, panic seizing his brain ‘You’re…’

‘Is that better, then?’ with a snake-like swiftness Hyacinth moved towards him, and he felt something warm running down his neck. The world was slowly losing colour.

‘What…’

Hyacinth wasn’t there anymore. But that wasn’t even important.

‘I warned you’ his voice kept whispering on and on, as the light was fading. ‘I warned you…’

Darkness.

****

In Ancient Greece, these blooms were strongly connected to concepts of affection and loss, presumably influencing its symbolism of mourning and regret in mediaeval Europe. In the flower language of the Victorian era, hyacinths were tied to sorrow, faithfulness, and dependability.

There must be meaning

In beauty,

Don't you think?

In silken curls

Of autumn gold,

In luminous skin,

In eyes of forgotten dreams.

☀️

There must be meaning

In living blood,

Running through

The veins,

Like threads,

Weaving tapestries.

☀️

There must be meaning

In undying hopes,

In boundless thinking,

In overpowering

Youth.

☀️

They tell me life

Has plenty of meaning,

But I see simply

The wealth of decay.

☀️

It had meaning

While I had you there,

Glorious,

Seductive,

Opulent,

Shining

Like Apollo

Descending on Earth.

☀️

It all had meaning

In Rome,

In Paris,

In London,

In bedrooms and piazzas,

In the setting sun.

☀️

It all had meaning

While you were alive-

Pleading for a kiss,

Salvation,

You said, lingered

On my fingertips.

☀️

And I yielded.

I succumbed.

I gave up.

I stayed too long.

☀️

One brief moment

Of rapture-

And life became

Meaningless

Again

When your hair

Touched that marble floor.

☀️

I stayed too long.

I had to go.

Leaving you there.

Unblemished.

Perfect.

Forever young.

Shining

Like Apollo

Dreaming in shadows.

☀️

Forever.

Hush,

Hush, tesoro.

Let me sing you to sleep.

No need

To be scared, tesoro.

You're now mine to keep.

There

Where stars still glitter,

Where

Ocean meets the sky,

I'll sing

You songs of wonder,

I'll sing

You songs of light.

Old lullabies

Will linger

Until it's time to sleep,

And then

They'll last forever

Because you're mine to keep.

Don't be afraid, tesoro,

There'll be

No pain at all.

Shh, quiet, caro mio,

We will survive

The fall.

Death shall be swift,

I promise,

Just think of…butterflies

They flutter past,

They're dancing

Beneath Calabrian skies,

One rests upon

A flower-

You'll never feel the bite.

*The title comes from an old Italian lullaby that revolves around…well.. butterflies.

Exquisite.

Pristine.

Perfect.

Noble.

🌹

Blood curdling.

Thrilling

Chilling.

Treading royally.

🌹

Triumphant.

Attractive.

Glorious.

Venomous.

🌹

Silks.

Velvets.

Damask.

Gold lace.

🌹

Blood red.

Crimson

Black

Snow white.

🌹

Rubies.

Pearls.

Garnets

Crystal tears.

🌹

Elegant.

Stylish.

Domineering.

Owning each and every inch.

⚰️

Seductive.

Sexy.

Lethal.

Dancing his way through.

🌹

Incomparable.

The one and only.

Your host tonight.

🗝️

Death.

It was supposed to be a poem, but i’m too tired. So here you go.

Here we ain't playin'

The music of bars,

The one that's

Louder than words.

⚰️

Nah, we playin'

Som'thin all quiet

Music of coffins

And bones.

🪦

Old buryin ground

Is an orchestra, mate,

Each playing

His own tune.

⚰️

The widows,

The bankers,

The players

And fools.

🪦

Lemme conduct

You a symphony, man,

Played

On remains of the day.

⚰️

Lemme guide you

Along the desolate lanes

Of memories

Forged by the dead.

🪦

Hear the gates

Leading on

The melody now

To ease into jazz and woe.

⚰️

Hear the pain

Of the living

Unveiling the tune

You have never heard before

🪦

Our music is different

Yet it's alive

For those

Who can head the dead.

⚰️

And we're gonna

Play it

till it is all done

And nothing ever remains.

Your bloody traces.

You've left so many,

With wit and taste.

And all is left here,

Is simply ash,

Dust,and gore

and fear.

〰️

The storm will carry

My washed out memories.

Silk, damask,

Gold

Now turned to rust.

The dawns of wonder

And dusks

Of lust.

〰️

The sun will burn in out

All the embraces,

Destroy all bridges,

Wipe off the sighs.

I will forget you

Cut the connections,

Sever all ties

With a jagged scythe.

〰️

I would have asked you

But I lie bleeding

I have no strength

And my will is weak-

Was it all worth it,

Pray tell me, lover,

Or were you playing

Some evil game?

〰️

You've cut me open

With finest razors,

You've bled and burned

My poor heart to dust.

But was it ever

Something of pleasure

Or simply torture

That you've enjoyed?

〰️

So get thee gone now,

My rain of torment,

My storm of passion,

My dawn of hope.

Forgetting never

I'll stay forever

accursed shadow

Dreaming of light.

Castles

Dusty, drafty,

Disturbed,

Deteriorating,

Damp.

Opera capes,

Top hats,

Shimmering

Diamond-crusted,

Silver coated,

Bodies

And stakes.

Screw the fables.

Look at me.

Forget

The things

They’ve told you.

See me

Strip

Before you.

Enjoy the show.

Perfect,

Isn’t it?

Chiseled,

Created

By the hand

Divine,

No less.

Is that what you see?

Examine me.

Look closer.

Touch me.

Let me shiver

Let me melt

As the ice sculpture

Would

At the touch

Of a red-hot

Sword.

Metaphor’s my thing.

Watch

Your fingers

Leave a trace

On my skin.

Cold.

Pale.

Silky-smooth.

DEAD.

Can you feel the heart BEATING?

Screw the romance.

Death

Is staring at you.

A killer -

Your, perhaps-

Feeling you up

As you ask yourself

If he’s THAT dangerous.

Yeah, you bet.

Fuck the fantasy.

Bleed me.

Torture me.

Run your fingers

Through my hair

And cut my throat.

Pierce me.

Want me DEFEATED.

Dominate the eternity.

Bathe in my blood.

Get nothing.

Watch me

Come back

Covered

In YOUR blood.

Even more

Perfect

Than before.

Fuck the novels.

And me.

For

You’re like

Obsidian,

You said,

Laughing.

Your hair,

Your eyes,

The dreams

Your dreams.

I can see

Myself

Reflected

In you

Perfect.

Elusive

Shimmering

Glimmering

That’s what

You said

And I

Believed you.

Every word

Each thought

Every sigh

Echoing in me

Up until

The moment

When obsidian

Cracked.

And silver

Turned green

As if venom

Stained it.

I can see

Myself

Reflected

In you

Perfect.

Elusive

Shimmering

You said.

And I

Saw nothing

But bile

And rot.

Obsidian has

That power,

You know,

To show things.

Obsidian,

You called me.

And I reflected

You like a mirror.

It shattered.

Freeing me

From your

Bloody spell.

But I knew

One drop

Of blood

Would mend it…

That day

Obsidian

Became

Garnet.

I'm here,

Chained to you.

〰️

Don't you see?

My blood

Flows in you

〰️

See me.

Prostrate

Before you.

〰️

See me.

Quit killing

For company.

〰️

See me.

Haven't I

Done enough?

〰️

See me.

Feed off

My pain.

〰️

See me.

Drag me

Out of misery.

〰️

See me.

Don't let me

Drown.

〰️

See me.

In life and death,

Remember?

〰️

See me.

Do what thou will

With me.

〰️

See me.

Don't leave me

Here.

〰️

See me.

Be my

Tower.

〰️

See me.

Be my

Judgement.

〰️

See me.

Torture me

With your love.

〰️

See me.

Let me forget

The daylight.

〰️

See me.

Put me

In my coffin.

〰️

See me.

Be my

Grave.

Write with my blood.

Rip me up,

Cut the heart

Open,

Dip your quill

Into the red,

And write

As long as the

Bloody ink flows.

Chase me,

Catch my breath

On the violin strings,

Taste my tears

In your

Fucking absinthe.

Trace my mind

In ink

On the cooling skin

Of my wrists.

Go on then,

Rob me

Of all words.

Forget your own,

You already took

Mine.

Play on my

Heartstrings

And watch me

Die

Again and again.

Let my pain

Become the night,

Let my longing

Die

Crushed by your

Reason.

Write, rhyme,

Let it be decadent,

Dashing

And rotten to the core.

Go on then,

What are you waiting for?

Write with my blood,

My tears,

My madness,

My despair,

Drink up,

But don't choke

On the laudanum.

Write in my blood.

But leave the bile

To me.

I could have told you

Thousand stories

Hundred years ago,

Decades and decades

After giving up

On the chase

They call living.

〰️

I could have told you

How my heart ached

Each day,

Each hour,

Every minute

Of not seeing

Your laughing eyes.

〰️

I could have told you

That being

Broken hearted

Felt like a scalpel

Drawing maps

On a beating heart,

Bleeding rivers.

〰️

I could have told you

That my nightmares

Had that damned

Face of yours

Painted with the shades

Of your sarcasm,

Your ice cold touch.

〰️

I could have told you,

Recount each incidence,

Each desperate,

Pathetic way

Of surrendering

My soul

To your ego.

〰️

I could have told you

How it still hurts

Being forgotten

By the maddening crowd

Existing

Too far from the place

I am at.

〰️

I could have told you

I still loved you.

I could have shouted

From beyond

The glass woven veil,

Beating myself

Into submission.

〰️

But I will not

For I am dead.

And there is no way

I can break the wall

And crush the stone

Your loving hands

Put me under.

〰️