I think the vampires outside my door would like to have a word

They’re hungry for blood 
and I was born to give it. 
And I would, it's just that 
I’m all covered in 
light and I think the moths would 
cling to me, stuck like velcro 
shoes and shame, if it weren’t 
for the dust falling like rain 
off their wings. 

Did you know moths and butterflies 
can’t fly anymore when the layers of 
dust are stripped from their wings? 
Did you? 
Did the vampires know I 
can’t breathe without the sun? 
And did I know which this was– 
a ritual torn across the line of 
compulsive and 
masochistic?

That line’s always been 
blurred for me anyways. 
Dashed, faded white. Not bright yellow 
streaked across the highways in my veins. 
Dark so the moths can’t find it. 
Dark so the vampires can. 
Did you know the vampires can’t come in 
if you don’t let them?

And the moths can’t lose the powder 
securing their flight if I don’t 
rub my fingers across the eyespots on their wings. 
If the powder sticks their false eyes can see the sky. 
And my false eyes can 
see the horror past the door, 
past where I sustain a life 
curled over my bathroom counter, 
static bulb buzzing above me 
while the moths hover and droop to the tile floor. 

I think the vampires outside my door 
would like to have a word 
and I think this is half compulsion
half prayer. I trap my hands on the granite. 
I cannot touch my body. 
I cannot touch the door. 
I cannot touch the moths. Few things are real 
anymore and the dust 
falls like rain from my back. 

Did you know few things are real anymore? 
And did you know if you look 
hard enough, you can pass clean through the mirror?
Did you?
Did you know you and the 
moths and the light can all fly again 
if you just open up the door?
Did you?
Did you know 
they are hungry for blood 
and you were born to give it?