the demon beneath idealisation | a poem against vampires

she wants to pull something out of me

something to play with

to use against me

something good to twist

and turn into something that hurts

me right back

*

she looks at me empty-hearted

her eyes, grey from self-starvation

begging me

to put my soul on a platter

*

she wants me in the same room with her

so that she can bring the roof down upon me

*

her face discomforts me

the absence of good intentions

*

it is unsettling to listen to the fast effortless pace between

her swindling voice

and her pain-inflicting true voice

they almost sound the same

that’s the trick

listen closely

*

she is nourished by your projections on her

the fantasy she performs

the truth you think you buy

and she draws you in and closer

and you gape in admiration

within the images of blind adoration

echoing into the world

and she profits from your praise

and she snaps and entraps you

and as she blossoms wildly

you degenerate

and nobody suspects a thing

because you painted her in the most beautiful tones

and taking it back means nothing

the more you speak to open eyes

and liberate yourself

the more she’ll toy with you

harass you, intimidate you, isolate you,

badmouth you, exploit you,

whilst living off your engrained hymns of idealisation

that seem to grow and become magnified

as you shrink

in your perceived powerlessness

“Study of the head of a lying woman” by Frans Floris I (1519/1520-1570)

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