It is not death,
Without hereafter,
To one in death,
Of life and it's laughter,
Nor the sweet murder,
Dealt slow and even,
On to martyr,
Smiling at heaven,
It is the smile,
Faint as a (waning) myth,
Faint, and exceeding small,
On a boy's murdered mouth.
That was my favorite poem of all time, I would repeat it in my head over and over again, it would play in my head, "on a boy's murdered mouth" and every day I would wish that some day that would be me, over top of an innocent little boy watching as blood drips from his mouth onto the floor, and as the blood stains the floor the boy would slowly wisper his last word help, but that never happened.
I lay in bed at night staring up at the ceiling with the glowing stars I put up there when I was a kid, thinking who will be next, who will be my victim, who will I kill.
And what most people don't understand is that we need to kill just like humans crave pleaser from sex with another human, we crave pleaser from killing, from watching the blood drip to the floor, running down there victims neck from were we cut them, we need it, we crave it, we love it.
YOU ARE READING
DARK SECRETS
أدب المراهقينpoor Annabelle living a life as a seral killer, killing her victims one by one watching them all die slowly. but her life is slowly filling with dark secrets as no one noticed all the killings all the lies Annabelle's life will slowly fade
