vampirewithahangover

He may be the moon, but when he smiles it's like the sun in her eyes. She doesn't know what about it is so enthralling, or why he does it so little, or if she'll ever find out. Maybe that's why she's stuck around for as long as she has, to see that smile of his ever so rare. And maybe that's why she aquiesces to his every demand, why she can never say no to him even when they fight. Just to see him smile, she supposes. It's magic, that smile, a magic he isn't aware he possesses and one that more and more often she finds herself wanting to exerience again. Here she is now, at a quiet bus stop not too long before dawn, staring out across the s

It doesn't know where it came from. It doesn't remember birth, just that one moment it wasn't and the next it was. And it  was looked after and loved, guarded jealously as a mother dog protects her pups. It doesn't have memories, but if it did its first would be of a blissful chaos and black. It hasn't a face, nor eyes with which to see, and its voice isn't real so much as it is an imitation of real, a concept that is close to tangible but not quite close enough. And though it cannot be born, cannot die, now it is tired, and it somehow is dying as some other real-but-not-real something slinks in through the door of an old home  to r

I'm in love with lying. Did I ever say? It's my favourite thing to do lately. Sometimes I, I think I might love it more than I love myself. It's all I have, when I look at it. Lies are what I'm built on.  It's almost an art form, really, or else some sort of magic. Either way, you've got to be real skilled to do it. You can't slip, no. Can't never slip. Every blink of your eye must be well-timed, every gesture impeccably fluid, every nuance of your voice just — right. They say liars always look down and to the left — I've trained myself to look you right in the eye, I have. And liars fidget, too, but when I talk to you I'm sur