Eulogy for a vampire: A poem

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I try to spit the

Seed out; instead it

suffocates in skin.


I try to pass away

in days; on the wall

your body is a bed.


My hands smell 

like salt; I wish they

smelled like roses.


Psychopathic Lover

in okayland; has she

fixed herself yet?


Old Martyred Friend

sees you; is that your

Beloved on your arm?


La Llorona screams

in grayland; if you see

Her, tell her you’re dead.



Jordan Harris is the night editor. Contact her at [email protected] and follow her on Twitter at @jordxnhxrris.