Thank You, Satan

  I chugged a bunch of blood at the party, then acted like a douche. I don't know my limits. Nobody knows my limits, but they might want to, because I'm hypnotizingly interesting and dark. I've never found another person interesting. It might be the intensity of my hidden emotions that allures people; the depth of my metaphorical torment haunting them from within me like a ghostly demon thing. Maybe it's my eyes that burn them with  fires from the hell that I live everyday in my mind. My poems attract a lot of attention. I write at least three a day,  passionately, and people love to read them. They don't always make sense, and sometimes I use words inappropriately just to make good use of them, and the subject is always tightly based around my crying habits, but they're really good poems, you know? Honestly, I'd prefer to be left alone to write forever, and never show my work. I selflessly socialize because people are more comfortable with thinking of me as a fellow human. 

  Blood tastes bad. Sometimes I rest a few pennies on my tongue as practice. I want to like it, so I don't have to lie if someone asks. It's not the taste though, it's about the feeling of power that comes with it. Normal happy people have no power over me. They're too distracted with living to notice the spookiness of reality. By choosing to not be predators, they agree to be prey. It's not always blood, I can also consume energy. I could psychicly drain you completely dry, without you even noticing. While everyone is laughing and having a good time, I'm feeding and growing more powerful. 

  Blood is a flashier way to go about it. It may seem medically and mentally sick, but it makes a statement. It's like looking a person right in the face, and telling them that there's something wrong with me. I choose to be strong. My weaknesses exist only in nightmares. I want to drink your blood for no reason. 

  It's a very complicated and spiritual lifestyle. It's not easy to function in society wearing black makeup and a cape, but I can't change who I am. When I take the makeup off,  it's then that I'm wearing the real mask. When I take off the cape, I get cold. Nobody understands me. The world is a clam, and I'm a unicorn seahorse. There's no better way to say it. There are no words unique enough to express how different I am. I'm much more special than anyone else. The stress drives me to drinking. 

  Blood, that is. Red gold. Texas chainsaw tea. A bubbling crude. I feel younger just thinking about it. I feel smart when I think. I think about blood all the time, so I don't have to lie if someone asks. Nobody believes me until I'm floating around the party, guessing everybody's weight. That is, if I can tear myself away from posing in a corner, thinking about blood. I want it so bad, I throw up afterwards. 

  My only fear is slayers. Slayers frighten me almost as much as I frighten myself. They stalk me everywhere, and one even moved into the house next door. They all disguise themselves as Polish, and grow stew tomatoes to survive. My every move is monitored and kept in records around the world. They can see and hear everything except for when I'm on the toilet. I try to do things to prove how innocent and hurt I am, but I'm evil.  The only reason I haven't been killed yet is Satan. 

  Thank you, Satan.