She sees me.
Her unusual eyes
track my every move
from across the room.
Odd to feel like prey
after ages of being predator.
Why does she look
as if she understands
so much more
than the sheep around me?
She sniffs the air,
but too many bodies
cloud her senses,
distract her.
She couldn’t smell me anyway.
The undead have no fragrance,
except for the metallic aroma
of blood
dripping down our chins
after feasting on those who beg
for the bite.
One nuzzles the skin
at my neck now,
no idea she sits
in the lap
of her own mortality.
My teeth ache
to taste the pulse
in this lamb’s veins,
but I don’t,
because she is watching.
~Drake