Dear Adalaide Harrison,
Tonight I might bring upon yourself the ceasing
Of the rhythmic motion of your breathing,
And the gathering of your increasing sufferings
While they remain forgotten and buried deep
Within your heavily soaked pillow fabric,
But to mine, I bring an end too;
Where you live, I live.
Where you die, I die.
We were bound by a force so great
That no divine power could break,
But, of that which held us firmly together,
Our bond that is determined to last forever,
Desperate pleas and piercing screams echoed
From the throats of the prisoners begging for mercy ignored;
Whether it was love or destiny itself,
No one shall ever know.
Yours,
The Prisoner.
YOU ARE READING
Sixteen Letters From The Killer [Fictional Poetry]
Poésie"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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