I can see the darkness, as well as in the dark.
It is not the same thing.
I can’t be seen, but I am known by many names.
You can’t hide your true self, no matter how thick the overcoat.
I wonder if I’m cursed with a gift, or gifted with a curse?
It doesn’t matter, really. The visions are all the same, the sickness is all real, and there is no filter.
Your deepest secret is a meteor plummeting you to unseen but certain destruction.
There is nothing I can do, and nothing I would, given the chance, for I grow stronger, the darker your path.
Your evil feeds me; your blood is my nectar, your life, my sustenance.
I bathe in your fever’s sweat.
And I follow you, unseen, in the darkness of your home; I stalk you in the void of the never-ending chasm of your fragile, smoking soul as it drifts toward my immolating fingertips.
I am closer than your shadow, deeper than the marrow of your bones, but I make it so the only pain you feel is your own.
Feathers of needles will prick and pluck the strings of your nerves and muscles.
My leering, dark-winged soldiers will have their way with you in your own bed, and just for a little while, the nightmare shall be real before you wake, trembling and crying as I kiss your quivering lips.
Your screams are a melody, your wailing, a harmony; the inkwell of misery I use to write on your heart never runs dry.
I will grind out my pleasure on you in the waning moonlight, only to reap the husk of you at dawn.
Let me hold you through the night, for all eternity.
Nightshade Stories 