sometimes I tire of being fair and caring
of seeing things from your point of view
of thinking broadly of cause and effect and the delicacy of the little girl in you
sometimes I tire of looking for my culpability
compassion does not always beget compassion
and perhaps, I have learned that vampires are real

you see compassion (i do not say feel) as a handle to hold:
my strong heart, which loves you and loves I and loves youandi
becomes your feasting table, became your feast
eat this, it is my flesh, drink this, it is my blood

I am no savior (much as I want to be), no messiah, barely have I the blood left to move myself
barely have i strength to let you alone
your tears, your accusations, your unending demand to feed, demanding more of me until i no longer know my hunger from your hunger, until there is only feeding and preparation to feed (and hope, never ending hope that at last, you will say “it is good”)

my strong heart is growing wiser, it will not run and hide forever (today, yes, and maybe tomorrow also)
and while it still bleeds for you, (because my heart is made to bleed and I will not change that),
you may no longer taste the iron and the wine, you may no longer satiate your hunger through my veins
But I shall still bleed, to feed my own need
Until I learn the taste of new drink