city lights.

Vampires are real.
They just aren't what we think they'd be.

They aren't pale teenage boys whose love interests must think
Romeo et Juliette
is the greatest love story of all time.
(It really isn't.)
(It's called "tragedy" for a reason.)

They aren't beautifully scarred things.
Broken goods pacing the night air,
trying to avoid their predecessors like the plague.
(Which is funny.)
(Because Louis carries illness with him,
illness of the heart everywhere he goes: 
spreads it like seedlings.)

They aren't Bela Lugosi with gaudy make-up jobs,
rubber bats dangling in the windows.
(Though that's closer.)
(Because you can always see
the fishing line dangling over
the heads of real vampires.)

They aren't Americanized.
They can have more ridiculous accents
than fake Romanian.
(And, also,
less ridiculous.)
They are warm.
They can breathe, and do it often.
Their hair grows.
The sun is no object.

In fact, it's very hard to tell
a real vampire from a normal person.

But when they open their mouths
when it matters the most,
you better listen close.
Because that's when you can tell
if it's a real vampire.

When it opens its mouth
(to speak),
if when it closes it again
you feel drained,
you feel empty,
you feel enraged
and sorrowful
and lonely
and outraged
and maybe you're crying,
(just a little)
then you've met
a real vampire.

Because while a real vampire is
a master of disguise
and is indistinguishable
from all the rest,
when a real vampire speaks
it can do nothing
not a damn thing
to hide the ugliness
of its heart.