Hobo Storylines

The question is

Do you become wiser after you have forgiven ceaselessly to the corrupt-ers of your youth and innocence? Or does wisdom reach maturity when you have realized that forgiving does not always guarantee that you will find peace; that eventually the cycle resets?

Because even at 2am, my blood is being distributed between a family of mosquitoes;

I do not believe there is another blood sucking demon that I detest more than you. (Because vampires do not exist)

Therefore, I know that I am speaking for the entirety of the human population when I say this;

I enjoy seeking you out in an empty room, while the light is bright.

I revel in the joy of slamming anything, (a fly swapper, a sociology textbook, a pillow, or a shoe), anything with a flat surface on top of your sharp wings and thin legs.

I cannot wait to feel the rush of glee-filled high as I force my stolen drop of life through your pores and the contentment as my blood smears ruthlessly onto the white, white walls.

And for the rest of my life, guiltless, I will continue to slay your kinsmen in the same exact (mirror-like) image until I am dead beneath the ground, six feet deep and much to dry to feel your needle sink into me.

Sincerely,
Your blood source.

Ponderings

It is two thirty a.m in the morning and I am deeply troubled. You string your worries onto my shoulder and watch me carry it, the burden weighs the soles of my feet into the ground, but I carry on and all the while repeating soft expressions of encouragement to lessen the drooping in your ears and the crease in your heart. It is two thirty a.m in the morning and my back breaks beneath the pressure, but I can find no one to help me reload. I stumble over the empty words, the promises that were never fulfilled and the hasty arrangements, existing only in hopes of shutting me up, of easing my anger before the vows are once again buried beneath the depths of the dirt in your brain. It is two thirty a.m in the morning and I cannot sleep because I cannot keep the disappointment from reaching my head, cannot force back the the flood of emotions that drowns me. I do not swim. I do not even try. But all too soon, the flood slips away, leaving me stranded, again. It is two thirty a.m in the morning and all I can think about is how much you don’t care.

Kindred

How do you tell someone, your own flesh and blood but not your own, that something is wrong without the worry, that they will hate you for the rest of your life. That someday when they have grown older, that what you did, was reasonable. How do you know, that they will forgive you, because you are their aunt and did what you could, to lengthen their youth so that they should never have to live in the same footsteps.