365th Post

The lightning slashes across the darkened sky.

The thunder roars.

The rain soaks me to the skin.
But amidst all the water.
It washes my blood tears away.

But nothing actually adheres.
To this preternatural skin of mine.

Skin as white as marble.

That strikes fear into mortals.
Who as so much as look closely at me.

An angelic beauty.
That brings death at the merest touch.

So what are we actually?

Angels.
Or.
Demons.

It's a question that eludes all of us.

Mortals who study us.
And blood drinkers alike.

Such is one of the mysteries.
Of our origins.

Whereby.
Neither time nor death.
Holds any meaning for us.
Drinkers of the blood.