I'm in a darkened room; candlelight.
The patrons ask me if I am alright.

I nod politely, and turn ahead.
The people in front of me are already dead.

Chills rush through my spine as if Death himself were caressing my broken heart.
The warmth that evil had shown to me tore my love apart.

I want to be with him, and feel his skin against mine;
our heat colliding- sex is on my mind.

I want him to feel my waves of the purest ecstasy.
I feel so confined knowing that he's right next to me.

He pulls out a knife, and I just stare back.
He slices my skin, and out pours black.

I cry out that he's hurting me; he doesn't care.
I look in his eyes and the expression is bare.

The patrons then surround me, expecting a show.
The only light in the room is the candlelit glow.

I feel my passion build up again; I cannot contain it anymore.
I force myself on him, for he seems to love whores.

He throws me right off him and holds up the knife.
He plunges it into me, my eyes draining of life.

The dead instantly rise again and turn to me to cry,
"I want to feel his skin against mine."