Dear Adalaide Harrison,
"It's all a lie," you said at nine;
"The universe barely prevails as fantasies bound by time"
Made me steal sweet Alice's doll and claim time owned all,
Day and night, the wrong and the right;
"Time alone exists, the rest is mist."
"Does that mean I can have what's not mine?"
To this concern of mine, an affirmative was your response.
I did as you said
And soon you were blaming me for theft.
Do you remember
All those times you made me commit crimes...
They do exist as memories in your head, don't they?
I never returned the doll, I couldn't do it.
What I could do is bring justice
For a moment at least
By punishing the real criminal with guilt, fear and the ultimate death.
Death is real, though, isn't it?
Yours,
The Puppet.
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)