The Last Letter

To my only friend,


The day is dull. It looks like late evening, but it isn’t. The shadows in my kitchen aren’t visible anymore, but the knife’s gleam is. The knife I’ve used multiple times. The train tracks outside my window are playing with this dullness. I bought lemons today. From the grocery store down the street. I don’t know why though. Maybe I just wanted to talk to someone. I cut the lemons with the knife I have used multiple times. On flesh, through guts. It has silenced screams. But today, it was a bright yellow lemon. It did not scream. It was juicy; clear liquid poured out. Unlike the dark red I am used to. The cut lemon pieces are lying here on my table, innocent. As innocent as the young girls in the depths of my backyard soil. They’re all in my backyard.


It won’t stop here.

Tell the police they wouldn’t have won if I hadn’t stopped playing.


A.




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