Diary of a Serial Killer, Pt. Two

"Diary of a Serial Killer, Pt. One" 

The Dancer
By Danny Polter, 19

Pointed toes and hard pink shoes
Childlike smile with rosebud lips
Hair pulled back tight, your leotard,
It’s pink too, and you hum off-tune.

Twirl like a maypole,
Dragging your ribbons behind you.
Stay light on your toes,
“Am I tall enough yet?” you wonder
As you reach ever higher and bound,
Pliette, arabesque, bend down,
Slowly… Now jump! Each leap
Throwing you farther away from the ground,
But gravity won’t let go of your string.
He is your Master and he will
Bring you back down. Down to earth.

Every leap and pirouette yank so hard
As to make you or break you, your shoes
Point too far down, now that would be pain.
And perfect is pain again and again.
She sits to rub her Achilles’ tendons and knows
Tomorrow she’ll still loathe her mother’s plan.



Abduction
By Daniel Polter, 24.

He slowly turned the knob of the door to the dressing room.
         “She said she was going shopping with friends, and she hasn’t come home!”
She faced the mirror and took off her fall-colored sweater.

He tightened the straps holding her arms to the table.
         “You look so sweet like this, Darling.”
She groaned in her sleep, now wearing a black low-cut cardigan and jeans.

He put a hood over her face.
         “Michelle, have you heard from Amber? Her mother called, and she’s worried.”
She dreamed that she was a puppet, with strings. 

He sat, and just watched. There was no need for more.
         “No, Mom. I was with Jeff today.”
She opened her eyes… And screamed.



The Death
Private Journal of Daniel Polter, 18.

Imagine her.

Tied, wrists, fleece scarf,
The headboard of her grandmother’s old oak or mahogany bed,
A scene carved behind her of the first hunt.
Chosen helplessness on an almost antique patchwork quilt.

She has on jeans and a red bra.
Her name is simile.
Really, she is not bound so tightly
That she could not free herself at whim.

Her wrists truly held with only pleasure.
Bound equals trapped, red exudes passion,
So does escape call her name; Now or ever?

She still has her clothes, so she is either teased,
Or -her decision- decided to keep the scene
Provocative - but clean.

The daggers in her eyes can't be read,
If they could, the wrong person to catch
The slow-aimed steel would drop dead.

The right person went out of the room
Returning; a small bowl of ice.
An ice cube in each pale hand, She moves to sit.
His arms and her waist, his head in her lap.
She relaxes, enjoys belonging. His way.
“This is for you.” He whispers.

The scene pulls back, and
Time inside seems to stand still;
Her eyes closed in contentment, his in sleep.
He holds onto her, a life raft from his sinking mind.
Outside the window, time changes swiftly;
The sun disappears. His eyes open and drift
To the window, Just as the clouds cover
The perfect moon.

He looks to her face.
As if she knows he's watching,
her eyes open and meet his.
She follows his look to the window
just as the first drops of rain
begin to slip down the pane.
His face lights up. She wants...

Still holding an ice cube in each hand,
The rhythmic drips, her skin,
Animal with gooseflesh.
He tells her to open her mouth.
Obedience. Ice.
His hand over her mouth.
A clatter as ice hits the hardwood floor.

She begins to struggle, and although she is tied,
He uses his body to hold hers down.
It may not be need, but desire.
Her eyes plainly ask something.
He tells her that this doesn't count
As punishment. She whimpers, he can't tell-
Is she sincere? He moves his hand back...
Covers her mouth with duct tape
After forcing one more ice cube into her mouth;

"Just for me."




Remorse
-Danny

I miss her.
The things everyone mentions aren’t on my mind. Her scent maybe. Not the way she laughed, or even her smile. I miss the way she arched her back, or the way she jumped when she realized I was right behind her. I miss how I only saw color in her, the rest the world was gray -- now I see nothing worth chasing. No spark or even faint glow, only dark. The lamp that lit my life is gone, and I’m left standing in the fog,

Wondering why the clouds have fallen.
Without my love, the clouds fell, too.

(a week later)------

I saw someone today,
Who looked just like my love.
She saw that I began to stare
And turned her face away.
I followed her,
Kept far behind,
And careful watch did take
Of where she lived
And who she loved
And punished her mistake.
The poor frail copy of my love
Has now her lesson learned. /has learned her lesson yet
She now will never turn away/ She never now will turn away
A stare with glance that burned/A sorrowed stare at best
Her passion failed to match by far,
The power of her twin
And when I stopped;
Her fate the same
As what my loves had been.



Serial Love                                                  

She didn’t resist.                              The others had fought back.
He didn’t understand.                        The others had Hated him.
Her eyes were fearless.                    The others had been scared.

She couldn’t resist.                           She wanted his pain.
He wouldn’t understand.                    She needed his hatred.
Her eyes were hungry.                       She wanted to be taken.

He couldn’t resist.                              Her eyes begged it of him.
He now understood.                          Her eyes had their own secrets.
His eyes asked permission.            Her eyes gave it freely.

He didn’t resist.                               He needed her control.
She understood his sickness.          He needed her body.
His eyes asked again.                    He kneaded her softly.

She didn’t resist.                              He removed her gag.
He now understood                         Why you can’t rape the willing.
Their eyes shared plans.                  Their bodies shared secrets.


"Diary of a Serial Killer, Pt. Three"