I wrote this maybe a year ago, but I just found it again. I thought I would post it now, even though it's all over the place. As always, any reviews are welcome, even flames (although I would prefer them all to be constructive criticisms).
Your laugh is contentment, the smell of a warm spring day. It emerges like a sigh, like breath. A laugh is your natural domain-eyes sparkling, lips half in a smile, cheeks flushed.
It happens in an instance, and I feel like my body is melting into it. My joints, the meeting of granite bone and marble ligaments and tendons, unlock, and my muscles unclench. My forcefully calm expression, a perpetual look of bemusement and boredom, slips for a moment. Then, body melting into the melodic sound, I let myself collapse.
I'm trying to swim through this freesia-flavored sound, but my arms remain at my sides, refusing to help me, stumps of powerlessness. I'm trying to breathe something else-anything else-in, but your scent, your contentment has oozed its way into my unnecessary lungs like tar, coating everything as it slides down. I'm drowning in an ocean of you (your aroma, your laugh, your emotions-they overwhelm, invade).
Your laugh-it's unending. Long after it dissolves to form a larger smile, it rings in my ears, as if I stood too close to the church bells.
How could I deny this? That your siren call is not just for the blood pumping through your frail body but also for the person behind the mask of delicious human? There is something more-I want to grasp it, probe it, and be able to say, "This is your secret." I want it to be tangible, a living thing independent of the lure of quieting my thirst. I want the two things to be separate so that if my control wavers, part of you will be preserved.
My need is so strong-I shut down my senses and strain not to smell your scent. I can taste you on the tip of my tongue; I can almost perceive the ends of my fingertips touching the soft, malleable skin of your neck. The sound of your blood moving through your veins is like a tribal drum shouting for me to attack. There is no fear in your eyes-the waves of contentment are washing over the shores of your brown orbs.
God, if you laugh one more time, I'll bite.
If you move, I'll bite.
If you're not out of here in the next second, I'll bite.
His voice is like a life preserver thrown out to me in the middle of the ocean-I'm not drowning anymore, but I'm halfway submerged in it. My senses aren't overwhelmed by it, but my body still reacts.
His voice is a warning whispered, but your beating heart is all I can focus on.
Underneath the growing frustration that I have not yet sunken my teeth in, I am sure that my original feelings toward you (was it lust? or love?) changed into a blood frenzy. The half of me guided by conscience tells me to flee, to remove myself from the temptation of being near you, near your veins.
But why should I deny myself this? Keeping you alive won't redeem me, won't make me any less of a monster.