You don’t choose vampires
and ghouls any more than they
choose you, but you find consolation
in each other, all the unloved
and objectified strata of myth.

Everybody wants to fear you
or fight you, they never approach
a werewolf to ask what you thought
of that action movie or that romance book.

Your gatherings are legend though—
you have all the best mad-cap musicians
strumming and harping.
Orpheus with his lyre,
a chorus line of sirens,
they sing and break all our hearts
till well after midnight.

Somethings ooze up from the drains,
hairy cousins and velvet creatures
linger in doorways over glasses
of wine or blood. Everyone
lets their wickedness slip a little,
it's so difficult keeping up appearances.

You have platters overflowing
with fruit and cakes,
with seaweed and flowers.
You have bowls rippling
with stars and tendrils of fog,
there's something for everyone.

When dawn finally comes glaring
round all the rooms
still garlanded and glittering,
everyone who’s there
sleeps over, no questions asked.

You don’t invite centaurs
and other higher myths
who are always so bright they hurt
the eye, heads upflung
in joyous laughter. They
have their own burdens,
you know that.

But they are too gorgeous
and they move in this world
all the ways you would
if you let yourself
run riot and love fiercely,
if you knew how to stop needing
to please.

© 2026 Faith Allington