Poetry & Art by Angela Bella Morte
I used to crave the breathless chase,
The classic, codependent lace.
Of finding some dramatic soul
To bite and drain to make me whole.
Now I sit in pale repose,
Biting the urge that comes and goes.
Black-tipped fingers tap my chin,
Deciding where the lines begin.
No mortal boy, no finite spark,
Will lure me back into the dark.
