Succubus, They Call Me Poem by Dakota Ellerton

Whatever tomorrow brings.
well it doesn't really matter,
I don't plan to be here.
Every night I plan to rest,
never to wake.
Every walk I take,
leads to an endless rant of tears.
It's what drives me in life.
Lately, It's all a blur.
Skin to mine,
lips pressed to my flesh.
I was a Succubus.
I can hold my own,
and collapse on my terms.
Every night I become vulnerable,
my life melts to a liquid,
that has seemingly slipped through the spaces in my fingers.
To love, to make love,
a sick satisfaction curtles my blood.
My finger nails are raw,
from clawing at my chest.
There wasn't always an empty cavity behind my ribs.
I can't help but let fear,
take face.
Through suffering,
I find peace, relief.
It's deserved, it's suiting.
With tainted hands such as these,
I'd make the healthy sickly with a gentle touch.
Such simplicity,
it's almost cruel.
Yet, I can't help but smirk.