Dear Adalaide Harrison,
When seven, you scoffed at the idea of heaven,
Told me it was only hell in the end and that I must be content.
Every good I did was of no need,
And every evil thought of mine was equal to that of a deed.
Every time I aimed for the best,
You'd water the seeds of fear in my head,
Let them grow strong and freshly green,
And soon it was a jungle I was stuck in.
When I ran away in fright you'd weaken my sight
Make sure to have my path blocked if ever I was right.
Everywhere I went, everything I did, you were always by my side,
Your company a dreadful nightmare from which I could never wake up.
Through persistent whispers at times of weakness,
Right into my ear, forever you were encouraging fear,
Your words venom I could never get myself cleansed from.
You made me believe I was no human being like any other, but a terrible monster instead.
Yours,
The Innocent.
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)