after Anne Rice
Chronic illness is a vampire
and other people
are the real body horror.
I watch them walk
in the sunlight
without me.
There is no silver bullet.
I’ve staked my heart
a thousand times
wondering if I could be
otherwise,
but still, the moon
moves my body
without me.
Another month rises
and I’m transformed into
something Different now,
a new thing to be
suppressed,
or vanquished,
or taken while it sleeps.
I’ve lost count of all the times
they’ve tried to cure me,
the beast that
devours itself,
drinks its fill
without me.
Fluorescein, eye of newt,
methotrexate,
wreaths of garlic–
all these things
might destroy me.
Then again,
they might not.
The pain comes at night,
and it needs
no invitation
from me.
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