I loved Poppy Z. Brite when I was 17, but I feel like even then I was on the cusp of being too old to appreciate his work? They are lush, overwritten books, full of blood and intense emotion: they are always over the top, and I appreciate them for the mess they are, but I'm not sure I could respond to them now. That being said, Drawing Blood is firmly my favourite -- it's a haunted house story, a trauma study, and it has all the beats of a hurt/comfort slash fanfic. I remember it so fondly I'm afraid to reread it and spoil it.