Dear Adalaide Harrison,
By six, your flaws I had to fix,
The little admiration I would have gained descending to absolutely none,
But for the ceaseless contempt received from every frown
I was abundantly showered upon.
I was always the villain, the source of pain;
If ever I was found near, the world would flee in fear;
I was abhorred by humanity,
And it was returned with equal intensity.
You appear confused,
As if what I utter
Are mere lies of fabrication,
Tales spun upon wild imagination,
But, you must remember
The times I was accused
For the crimes you carelessly carried
And the secrets exposing the depth of your evil buried.
Yours,
The Accused.
YOU ARE READING
Sixteen Letters From The Killer [Fictional Poetry]
Puisi"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)