Created: January 25, 2004

Updated: ---

Summary: [[Those Lips of Yours]] Nobody asked me to be what I am. They see my skin, my teeth, and my eyes. I�ve always been appalled by my reflection, and I expect them to be afraid, but they�re intrigued. Mortals are fools. [[Written in blank verse.]]

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Author�s Note: This is kind of a spur-of-the-moment story. So don't expect this to continue.

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Nobody asked me to be what I am.

They see my skin,

they see my teeth,

and they see my eyes.

I�ve always been appalled by my reflection,

and I expect them to be afraid,

but they�re intrigued.

Mortals are fools.

I will forever look like a fourteen-year-old girl.

It was forbidden to make a child so young to become

a creature of the night,

but did my maker know this?

No, he did not.

Ha, my �maker�.

For centuries, I question Heaven and Hell,

God and Satan.

I remember when God was my maker.

But ever since, now, and forever,

my maker is a bloodthirsty wretch,

only looking for someone to drink.

His only train of thought was to fulfill his hunger.

Being an immortal, such as myself,

has the ability to remember everything so clear.

But somehow I cannot remember the feeling of becoming �

this thing.

Is it because it is death?

I hear of stories that when you die,

you cannot remember how or feel.

But I know how,

I just don�t remember how it felt.

Careless me,

letting a vampire take the life from me.

I watched my last sun rise and set,

remembering everything just perfectly,

like the cliché �

as if it were only yesterday.