Did not hide in the darkness as she ought. As the legends and fairytales taught. Cloak of black. But she loved to wear blue.
Enjoying her prey. In the light. In the day. Boldly exposed, so that she would draw more. Toward her. In her. Nibbled on soft lips and fingers and thighs. Repulsed by the horrors that sucked up the black.
She hungered for quality. Not dredging for scabs. She desired the fresh. The bright. The shining and breathing. To drink them too deep. Loyal. Honest. Empty. A double curse for the cursed. That she craved faithful.
And yet. The sun stung. Her ears. Her years. Her rest. She could have saved for herself.
And yet. The wet. Of the blood. Fed enduring passion. Relaxation. Unlike the promise of night.
What becomes of a vampire. Who’s made for the darkness. Who lives for the day. She seeks a roped necklace. Swings free, finally. Breathes deep of her oven. Gulped need, faithful sleep.
For the sake of her children.
Outside of the door.