Bloodsucker

A poem

Image by Tom Barrett, via Unsplash

The bloodsucker lies in wait, in the darkness of the night, in the crumbling buildings, eyes focused, wallet hungry.

This rotting body

its too slow approach,

can be felt from birth and it waits in the dark with such patience.

It waits for you to struggle, it waits for you to start to bleed, it waits for you to give up, it waits for you to swim in your own need, it puppeteers your area, your life silently predetermined, every moment of suffering long planned ahead.

You live a life in orbit, circling, a vulture above your own body, begging, the moments to breathe becoming elusive, uncommon, the feeling of the noose invisible but tightening, inexplicable but you know it, you can’t shake it, and on sleepless nights, as you toss and turn, as the moon rises and starts its nightly plummeting, something watches on, praying that you fail, praying that you need, profiting from your pain, salivating when you lose.

You feel your body rotting, and can’t explain why you can’t seem to breathe anymore, your chest tight to breaking point, ribs cracking a brand new ache.

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