Rust & Roses

I tasted the blood on my lips.

She fed me more of her hot beer breath,

panting like a bloodhound after a sucessful hunt.

I barely knew this human but could tell from 

the second her glazed eyeballs
pointed at mine

that she'd do anything.

It couldn't have been more than thirty degrees that night but
where we laid
in the hatchback of the car it felt like the a furnace.
We went over a bump and she bit me again, this time harder, 

letting out another fiendish giggle,

digging her nails into my biceps. I tasted iron. 

Unbearable.

"Whoa, chill out with that, babe, it fuckin' sucks." I warned in the most mainly tone I could. 

I don't think it phased her at all.

The highway roared a few feet beneath our drunken bodies. Reflectors on the highway median zipped by in my peripheral like space lasers. One my my favorite songs blared from a blown out speaker that held up my head. I wanted to hum along but didn't. 

All I could think about was her smell and the awful taste of an other human's blood.

Rust and Roses.

It cloaked the night, 

suffocated me into submission. 

The rubber roar from below the car's floor pan lured us to down, 

down, 

down, 

and to the narrow space between the spare tire and and ski poles where empty bottles and god knows what else dug into my spine.

I laid paralyzed with a beautiful young woman on top of me eclipsing my view of the new year's moon.

At that point I thought back to just a couple of hours before this when I watched her piss between two parked cars, stand up, then slip down a hill of Olde City bricks and with superhuman abilities, manage to barrel roll but not spill one drop the opened 40oz of Olde English that I had stolen in her honor from an Asain Mart. I knew I might be in love when she huddled close to me against a spray pained window outside that crowded bar and asked me if I was, "A Faggot"

I had just met her

and still didn't quite know exactly what women wanted from men. 

The fangs seep so criminally slow sometimes.