Energy Vampire
At Grand Central Madison,
beneath glass and clock,
I saw her—black as decree.
She moved like warning wrapped in grace.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Judy.”
Her voice—a treaty made of silk.
Her eyes—both mercy and verdict.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Nowhere,” she smiled. “And from nowhere.
I feed on what men call strength—
their heat, their hunger, their hush.”
The crowd disappeared.
The station fell silent.
She stepped close,
and reason lost its armor.
“Your energy called me,” she whispered.
“You wait for trains.
I offer flight.”
Her lips touched mine—
a pact without ink.
The world folded like a secret.
We stood on Pluto’s frozen shore,
where gods hide from light.
“Here,” she said, “I reign.
Sex. Death. Rebirth.”
“You are pure,” she murmured.
“Purity is a weapon.
I will not steal what is whole.
I will temper it.
Sharpen it.
Turn pain into flame.”
Then she vanished.
Only her scent remained.
The city roared back,
but I was no longer its citizen.
Now, when I write, she breathes through my ink.
When I sleep, she waits between breaths.
Her law lives inside my ribs:
Guard your energy.
There are queens of the unseen realm.
They drink light, not blood.
They kiss to conquer.
They smile to command.
Remember this:
Not all warmth is love.
Not all mercy is kind.
Power is not in giving—
but in choosing what to give.
Guard your fire.
Spend your soul with measure.
Even tenderness has teeth.
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