TheRealTh1ng's Vampire Journal

TheRealTh1ng's Journal

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← Jul 2025

15:49 Aug 17 2025
Times Read: 31

I keep the bones,
not as trophies,
but as whispers that never learned how to stop breathing.

Death is not the end,
it is the echo
a chorus of mouths sewn shut,
screaming in silence until my veins remember them.

I cradle skulls like children,
kiss their hollow eyes,
ask them to tell me the secrets
their rot refused to take to the grave.

Blood clings to me,
not as sin,
but as scripture
each crimson drop a sermon written on pale trembling skin.

You pray for heaven.
I burn your prayers,
inhale the smoke,
and exhale a lullaby that drags angels down by their wings.

You think death waits.
No.
Death watches.
Death stalks.
Death crawls inside me when I close my eyes
and whispers, “You are mine.”

And maybe I am.
Maybe I always was.
For every time I kill the night,
the night wakes inside me darker.

I am the graveyard’s lull,
the undertaker’s secret smile,
the crypt that breathes beneath your feet.

Come closer,
and I’ll show you
not how death ends,
but how it begins.