Diary of a Serial Killer, Pt. One

My First Love
By Daniel Polter, 18.

Ashes, Embers, Smoldering coals,
Cinders. Long-dead matches,
Blackened pages of unread books.

The smell of gasoline lingers faintly
Among the beautiful scent of burnt wood.

The sight, of red earth to black soot,
Red brick complementing white ash,
Reads somber, but satisfies a thirst.

The air is too thin to breathe,
But thick with the taste of death.

I hear the sound of shovels, digging
Through wreckage, and voices, some calling
My family, some comforting me
My mind numb, my ears ringing.

The ghost of your hand rests on my shoulder
As I sit, unable even to evade
The rising smoke, wishing. Wishing
I didn’t already know where you are.



Ignition
Danny Polter, 18

A small quiet little thing,
The light from a candle.
Unassuming, you might say.
Only begging a small piece of paper to taste.
Maybe that thing you wrote today
That you shouldn’t have, yes.
That’s the one, you know it.

And the small light grows brighter,
If only for an instant,
As if to show its thanks.
And you wonder…

You feed it again, and it thanks you,
This time a little brighter.
The wax is beginning to build, so
You pour some out on the floor,
Or your wrist, or the girl. No
One will notice once you’re done,
Anyhow.

Eventually you realize what you must give it
In return for hiding what you’re done to her.
You give it the house, your parents, your life.
In return for saving your life- and hiding your
Secrets.

The lion roars it’s thanks, and begins to feed.




Pink
Daniel Polter, 20

You stand there, your back turned to me, hand on your hips, trying to show attitude that You already have. You aren't aware of me as you stand there, body amplified by that tight

Little white dress, not because you don't know me,
But because I’m hiding. As I watch you pose for the camera,
Your hair shines in the afternoon sun and your laughter warms me,
But the length of
The dress
And the view of your thighs warm me more.
Your body is like a picnic near an ants nest.

I want to take you back to my house to show you everything I've imagined for you
Since the day you started to blossom. I want to make you scream. I want to get you
out of that dress and into something a lot less comfortable.

I wish you could see your body through my eyes,
But then the fear you have of the camera -Like a lion,
Is part of what draws me. If only you could see your body
The way I do, You would compare yourself to a deer; slim,
Skittish, and graceful. The sun sank slowly, but it didn't stay
long enough for me as you got ready to go home.

House key in hand, you walk across the street, and I,
Pulling my knife from my pocket,
wait for my last glance as you turn one last time
To wave goodbye. While I wait for you
to go to your room, the smell of the coming rain begins to distract.

But soon I will, -and now-
I can see yellow light against your window shades.
Seeing your silhouette undress, I again feel like an ants’
Nest. This time one that hot water has been poured onto.
Damn, I really want to fuck you right now. I leave
Your gift beside the mailbox, and imagine
The pink flush of your cheeks after you find it.

Good night, my Darling.
I’ll see you soon.


Blind
By Daniel Polter, 20.

“I’m here about the spare female- Oh, no one told you?
There was a fire, broke into one of the houses, just down the street.
Government likes to blame the wiring, but I don’t
Think it’s something so innocent, nothing’s ever that easy.
It’s probably just a spare female couplet in the stud bay-
Yeah, that can cause a house to go up in flames.
I’m supposed to inspect all the houses on your block…
No Sir, the government is footing the bill for this one.
I agree, it’s nice that
Someone is finally paying for their own mistakes.

It should only take a few hours,
Should I come by later, or is now
A good time?”

I saved your bedroom for last, Sweetheart.
The pink curtains on your window gave you
Away. I lied through my teeth that whoever lives in this room
Looks well-loved. Your mother began to tell me
What she thinks defines you, and I took the chance to look around.

She seemed blind to the handcuffs stashed under your pillow,
“Good grades,” she said.
And to the slit, dripping wrists of the drawn angel on your wall.
“Athletic scholarship,” she said.
She didn’t notice the carved prayers in your closet like I did.
“Public service award,” she said, and left me to work.
She doesn’t even see, but I think I know why
Your drawings are taped to the wall with duct tape.

I saw everything.
I even saw that when you write, your ‘i’s are dotted with teardrops.
I wonder if it is loneliness that makes even your writing cry.


"Diary of a Serial Killer, Pt. Two"