Dear Adalaide Harrison,
When our eyes spoke of promising to love each other from the depth of our little hearts,
Till death would do us apart;
When we ought to have showered each other
With affection deep enough to embrace the other's weary soul
And warmth that could melt ice and shake clouds
And drown the rest of the town in rain and sorrows;
When we were both destined to be soulmates;
Why would you despise me when we turned five?
Now you cower in fright,
Your position is a pathetic sight,
But, all my life you've been ruining me to bits,
Your only excuse the impossibility to quit;
And to do the same to you in return is my only dying wish.
Soon you shall swim through the accumulated droplets of my tears, my blood and my feelings,
A diluted solution of all my sufferings,
And you shall see helplessness that'll seize you, squeeze you and drown you.
Yours,
The Vengeful.
YOU ARE READING
Sixteen Letters From The Killer [Fictional Poetry]
Poesía"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...
![Sixteen Letters From The Killer [Fictional Poetry]](https://img.wattpad.com/cover/279449355-64-k649744.jpg)