Harlequin's Lament

August 21, 2008
By Erik Quintanilla, Woodbridge, VA

I once loved a woman whom did not love me.
I suffered many of blows, both verbally and physically.
Everyday I would bring her a flower, a flower of the brightest most colorful kind.
I would give it to her only for it to be trampled under her feet.
And still I persisted, until the day I had had enough.
That was the day I knew what it felt like to cradle a rigid corpse.
What it felt like to feel her still beating heart within my grasp, pumping crimson ichor all along my face.
Oh no one could possibly find a trace of what had been the most dazzling woman I had ever seen.
I am never to be suspected.
For what reasons would a merry jester of my sorts condone to cold blooded murder?
None of coarse, warm blooded murder is the only murder for me.
To have the delicious liquid running down my throat.
Filling the empty voids of my neglected heart.
Filling my ever smiling face with an even wider grin.

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