NSFW: This poem contains violent imagery BTW, murder and psychosis.
#The Offering
fallen rapids
He saw her first on Tuesday rain,
umbrella less, the perfect frame.
He thought: This one. She'll understand.
She'll finally take my offered hand.
He practiced smiles, rehearsed his lines,
left letters in her mailbox. Sent subtle signs
of love, he thought, small gifts, a rose.
She never answered though. And he doesn’t know.
The others came before, it's true,
each one’s a lesson, pushing through
the wall between his heart and theirs.
They always left him on the stairs.
But she would be the different kind.
He knew it. Felt it. In his mind,
they had walked together, hand in hand.
She just... didn't understand.
The first one was an accident.
(He tells himself. The basement. Bent
at angles bones shouldn't allow.
It's fine. She is quiet now.)
The second? Well, she got too close,
discovered things. The garden hose
still drips. He hears it every night.
Drip. Drip. A rhythm. Something's not quite
He brings them flowers from the ones before.
Leaves them outside her apartment door.
The roses red, so fresh, so bright
(don't think about where they bloomed last night.)
She called the police. They came and went.
No evidence. No clear intent.
Just flowers, letters, nothing more.
(The crawlspace underneath the floor
is getting full. But there's still room.
For her. For her. The perfect tomb
no, wait, not tomb. He means their home.
Where they'll be happy. Never alone.)
Something's changed inside the walls.
He hears them whispering in the halls
the others, asking: When? How long?
Their voices blend into a song.
"Bring her to us. We're so cold.
We waited just like we were told.
You promised love would set us free."
He claps his hands. "You are not real. Not real.
I did this all for her, can’t you see?
She'll love me once she learns to feel"