The Midnight Hours. V.


The midnight hours call to me.
Staking their claim with sighs torn from bitten lips.
A hedonist’s celebration of innocence lost
marked, claimed, owned.
Power intoxicates; it’s provocative scent drugging my senses,
a witching hour rose,
blooming in the new blood flush spreading dark across your throat.
The familiar, voyeuristic gaze of a kindred boogie man skulking
in the shaded edges of my own and I wonder
If I too
Am the monster

Under the bed

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