Dear Adalaide Harrison,
Mother feared my loneliness deep
Said a baby's laughter would bring sleep.
Mother was right, Ellen was a delight, An angelic presence, though you saw a fright.
"Mother loves Ellen, not us," you pressed,
And when jealousy wouldn't touch me you aimed for fear.
"If you don't end Ellen," you said,
"Mother won't stop till you're lying dead."
Ellen's days numbered only eight,
Wrapped in Mother's silk, her gentle weight.
As we laid her to rest beneath the earth's embrace,
Silent and still, in her final place.
No protest from her, no cry to be heard, as we hid her away without a word.
One pretended, the other in tears, you guided my hand, feeding my fears.
We did it together, but it was I alone with guilt to pay.
"You buried your baby sister alive, Adalaide. How could you?"
Yours,
The Guilty.
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...
![Sixteen Letters From The Killer [Fictional Poetry]](https://img.wattpad.com/cover/279449355-64-k649744.jpg)