broken

My oldest friend
Who survived being born
Who survived neglect and apathy from the womb
Who didn’t die despite the fiery efforts of his mother and her men
Their axes and their fists
Who lived through hatred and waded through spit
A boy born of a liar who can not tell a lie
Who takes his anger and twists it until its achingly beautiful
Who has survived his own destruction

He who since he knew how
Kept the vampires at bay
Kept their blood away
But loved them just the same
He let them drink freely but never took one taste
(Though he ached to)
Now finds that he’s been sired anyway
He doesn’t know how, or who, or when

That fucking plague that (one by one) steals them from us.

(and then he said to me, “Well, at least I don’t have to worry about getting it anymore.”)