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This diary entry is written by ‹defineMANIAC›. ( View all entries )
 
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The Mortician's DaughterCategory: Random Writing
Friday, 20 April 2012
03:42:36 PM (GMT)
Midnight black hair.
Eyes the colour of malachite.
A smile that brings light even to the drab cellar she works in.
Kind to everyone.
Couldn't hurt someone's feelings if she tried.

I had to leave.
Left without a word.
No goodbye.
And now no words come my way.
She's finally learned to hurt.
After seven years, I'm the one she tests her newfound skill on.
She never comes out from her cellar.
If I knock on the heavy oak door, her father shoos me away before I can do any more
damage.

So I wait.
I wait for the impossible.
Until I realise.
I'll never see her again.
Unless.

I sit for a long time.
Simply staring.
It's warm, and holds no sympathy for me.
But it's the only way.
I lift my hand.
My right one.
The one that's clutching the dagger like a lifeline.
Which it is.

I make sure to keep my eyes open.
Right until the very end.
That way, she will be the last thing I see.

Comments 
‹mÿlö xÿlötö› says:   20 April 2012   877338  
This is really sad, but beautiful ;n;
 
‹defineMANIAC› says:   20 April 2012   290644  
@vanillatwilight 
Thank you.
Semi-vent, semi-poem. 
 
‹mÿlö xÿlötö› says :   20 April 2012   157540  
@TheScienceOfDeduction 
Now I'm in a poem-y mood... 
 

 
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