Dear Adalaide Harrison,
Here you are,
Scrawling all over the milky white paper,
Darkening it with years of concealed anger
Through words that exit the lips of your killer.
Your fingers trembling and tears streaming;
Sixteen minutes you've got to spare
Before death seizes control.
Flashes of fear
Flooding within your vision;
Was death not what you've always wanted?
Long enough you've lived.
Is it not the time, then,
To bring an ultimate end
To days you've spent in pain,
And nights you've wept in vain?
Yours,
The Killer.
YOU ARE READING
Sixteen Letters From The Killer [Fictional Poetry]
Poetry"But when one has no way of exceeding the limit of sixteen, Is death not the ideal medicine?..." ... On the night of my sixteenth birthday, my killer made me write sixteen letters to myself, dictating every word. Sixteen minutes later, I was dead...
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