Dear, God -
I helped planned his death today. She, at the age of eight, anticipated the way he would die, and I smiled. Forgiveness? I realize, no longer! The moment the thought drenched our options, well, she will never be the same. It will ever linger as a viable escape.
Pushed into the closet to wait, she beckoned me. His children had already received the “whatever this was.” It is of little matter. Did she not clean her room? Were chores not done to his liking? Perhaps, she looked at him or raised her voice to a pitch that hurt his ears – insanity does not question decision.
I recall the room was dark except for a stream of light peeping through an almost shut door. He leaves it cracked on purpose like there was some chance within the gates of hell for escape. I’m quite sure the image of her sneaking out was part of the excitement. I can imagine the disgusting smile accompanying his imagination. What? Yes, she can now conceive such filth! Don’t dare interrogate me! I’ve watched it; listened to it; smelt it.
Why did she not run? Her legs were so eager to flee, yet they curled themselves around me begging me for some protection. So, I waited and gazed down at her frightened young body. The silhouette of me - her savior. She'd never seen a gun up close, but she recognized my form right away. She knew the power it held, the energy she lacked.
She rose to her feet and clambered up the rickety metal shelves leading to freedom. She grabbed me and held me tight.
when he opened the door,
She killed him! We shot him without flinching. He was mine. She was free!
Dear Death –
Murder, wishes, desire, and deceit,
why do you still cling to her?
I know deep inside she waits,
yet I must refuse your escape.
You try to quench
a drenched memory,
but a well that is dry
thirst will only supply.
How she yearns to know
what your trigger would've shown
I know how her soul longs
for fate to be resewn.
Would you promise great value,
or offer her next great pursuit?
Would she be writing today;
what words would she choose?
If I allowed you
to return to her hand;
body, mind, and spirit
would no longer fight within.
You are the beginning of her death,
the endless string unto pain,
but by the thread that binds
it is not you that will speak slain.