If Serial Killers were Poets

Dear Victim,

My legs ache from waiting. My heart pounds in my chest. Do you pity me?

I wait, I'm waiting for you. My chosen one. I wonder, can you feel me?

I hear the clinking of keys, your door unlocks. I wait, quietly, patiently.

What a marvelous creation I've become. You see, it's a privilege to be me.

I wait, frozen in time, the insects on my brain clicking, ticking. Hear them.

Breathe, just breathe. Be patient. Be calm. I am not yours to condemn?

Ready to pounce, my prey. How clever of me, I'm tricking. My rhythm.

My insects are excited, cicadas in the bushel, deep within my brain stem.

She saw me, I laughed, Knife in hand, her face stricken. Are you afraid?

I'm in ecstasy. My bugs team and swarm, crowding my mind. See my blade?

Be patient my bugs, we're nearly there. Soon she'll be decayed.

My knife pierced, her blood oozed, my art, my design which I made.

I stripped her down and positioned her body, I fed, my insects. Hungry.

Success yet again. Untouchable, clever me. Never caught, always free.

I am satiated, I revel in the dead. I am but a death Junkie.

My insects have fed, they're sleeping now, but they'll be back you'll see.

Yours Faithfully,

Your Killer