A visitor who comes at night, hands cold as ice, and a bite: Nikky's "Him and I" borrows the furniture of a vampire story. But the poem is less interested in the monster than in what happens inside the person he feeds on. The speaker doesn't scream or fight. She closes her eyes, retreats into her own mind and bends. The central idea is the loss of the self under someone else's control. The poem suggests this control is repeated and almost routine, and that it leaves the speaker complicit in her own disappearance.
The first stanza sets the scene with unsettling calm. "He comes to me at night" is a plain, almost domestic sentence, as if this were an ordinary appointment. The cold hands add a physical shock, but the line that matters most is the last: "I close my eyes as he takes another Bite." The word "another" tells us this has happened before and will happen again. The capital B on "Bite", unusual in the middle of a sentence, makes the word stand out on the page, whether by design or by accident. Either way it works as a small spike of violence in an otherwise quiet stanza.
The second stanza turns inward. "I disappear into my mind" describes escape, but also erasure, because the speaker vanishes without going anywhere. The next line, "I can't bare to realise I'm there," carries a spelling that is probably a slip for "bear". Still, "bare" sneaks in the idea of exposure and vulnerability, which suits a stanza about being stripped of protection. What the speaker can't face is not the pain but her own presence in the scene. That is the psychology of someone who copes by going numb. The stanza ends with "And then once again I bend." The phrase "once again" repeats the "another" of the first stanza, so the poem begins to feel like a loop rather than a story with a beginning and an end.
That loop is built into the structure. "Bend" closes the second stanza and opens the third, with "I bend to his every will." The repeated word links the two stanzas the way the speaker is tied to him. The language of the final stanza is also brief and submissive. "His every motion" is a fragment with no verb, as if the speaker has little left to say about what she does. Only "his" and "every" remain, and the repetition of "every" makes his control sound total.
The rhyme is loose but purposeful. In each stanza the first and last lines reach for each other. "Night" and "Bite" rhyme neatly, and "will" and "thrill" do too. In the middle stanza "mind" and "bend" can only manage a half-echo on their shared "nd" sounds, which suits the one stanza where the speaker's grip on herself is slipping. The middle lines ("ice," "there," "motion") stay outside the pattern, as though they are trapped between the rhymes. There is no steady metre. Lines run long and short, and the rhythm feels spoken rather than composed, which gives the poem a raw, confessional edge.
The last line is the most puzzling and the most interesting: "Then all it does is give you some sick thrill." The pronoun suddenly shifts from "I" to "you," and "he" becomes "it." We can read this in several ways. The speaker might be stepping back and talking about the experience in general terms. She might be pointing at the reader. She might even be admitting, uncomfortably, that part of her feels a thrill too. The poem never says whose thrill it is, and that ambiguity is its sharpest move. "Sick" suggests that the speaker judges the feeling, and herself, harshly.
The poem's significance lies in how much it does with so little. Judging by the imagery, the vampire may be a metaphor for any relationship in which one person's will replaces another's, though the poem never names a real-life situation and we shouldn't assume one. Its three short stanzas turn a familiar horror image into something quieter and more troubling: not a fear of being attacked, but a fear of getting used to it.