Chop...Chop...Chop...Chop...Chop...
Laugh.
Murdering is an art!
It takes caution, skill, and smarts.
It also takes a weapon.
In the case of murdering, you can say...
that technically a human murders every day,
may not be of it's own kind, but...
we **** other living things every single day.
Do we see them?
No, maybe, possibly, I don't know. Do you?

I am...
Jack the Ripper!
I ****** prostitutes,
women who defile their bodies by
showing off their ******* and bellies...
and innards...to lost men.
I don't know why I **** this specific kind of pray...
but I do...And I know its fun teasing the media.
Maybe I should start murdering the men too...
Sneak into the room while their...going about their business...
...Never mind...That's a nasty thought...
Murderers care about that kind of thing too, you know?

They do not cry.
They don't have time to cry.
They do not scream.
They do not have time to scream.

I slice their throat first,
which means I win from the start.
Then...Save for my third,
I drag their innards around their bodies
like...fuzzy neck boas.
I take no souvenirs...It would cause a havoc...
A havoc I prefer not to have...

Chop...
Chop...
And laugh!
Chop...
Chop...
And laugh!
Chop...
Chop...
And laugh!


© 2012 Melody

Mommy!
I don't understand. Why is the room so quiet?
Why is there ringing in my ears?
Why is there red water surrounding you?
Do you want me to clean up the ketchup for you?

Mommy,
I'm not going to get it of you don't tell me.
Are you okay?
Does is hurt anywhere?
Why aren't you breathing?
Why do you smell so bad?
Why are you so pale?

Mommy,
I think I hear the police sirens.
Maybe they can help!
Stay here Mommy!
I'm going to save you! I swear!
Wait...
Why is there a gun in my hand?

Mommy!
I'm sorry!
I didn't mean to shoot out your eye...

Mommy!
Why did you die?!
It's rude to ignore an invitation to a royal tea party.
Didn't you hear? If you do that...
The queen sends you to a death sentence...

Mommy!
I'm sorry!
I made your eye
go bye-bye...
Just like Daddy...
What's wrong with me, Mommy?
Am I a monster?
Like the monsters underneath my bed
and in your closet?

Yes...
Child...You are,
A monster.

© 2012 Melody

Character: Myself, or Melody, Mel
Setting: Time is now, plain dark room with a stage and a single spotlight in a light blue light shining on me.

------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­------------------

I've asked myself before; why do I write the way that I do? Why do I continue writing the writing that reminds of the scary inspiration that if I let it get out of control then it could become my reality?
I've answered myself before; I don't know, I don't think I will ever figure out why. I don't want to know.  I can control my future, my destiny, my sanity...

No, and that's the truth. I will never be able to control my sanity! I'm weird person, with an even odder persona! I hate myself because I'm practically throwing my words onto a computer screen and not into a book. I'm hoping, hell I'm even praying (to the best of my ability) that by time I become something it won't be too late!

Have I ever asked for help? No...If I did, it was for a ******* topic, because I was desperate to get the greedy and clawing and tear-bringing words out of my system. I wanted to know what others thought that I could write. They wanted to read novels of which I had written, I told them I can't write a novel. I write poetry. ....Now I know that I can write anything I want.

My eighth  grade Theatre and English teacher taught me that writing a monologue is like drinking tap water. You stare deeply at the glass knowing that you need it, but it tastes so bad and the after-taste leaves an even worse taste but the after-feeling is like heaven in your mouth, the feeling of being regenerated to maybe not perfect health but you're alive and that's all that will really matter.
That's what writing feels like, and I would know because I was the one person who fainted at 8:00AM last summer from dehydration and lack of sleep.

I always have some error in my words. Whether a few lines need to be shortened or split, or even forgetting to punctuate. OR, oh and I'm famous for this in English class essays, run on sentences. It's odd though because I get told to edit it to make it even more perfect, and I never go back and touch it. I mean, sure, sometimes I do, but even that's normal for me to do.



I write the way I do because I'm terrified of a perfect poem written by me. I'm scared of getting a perfect 100 but if you hand me 99 I promise my right hand that I'll be happier than a dog with a fresh bone.
I write because I felt loved and then the chain broke and I felt hated. That hate, made me feel welcome to a whole new world. That world is called...

The World of Words.


And it's decorated hilariously because the city sign in big and flashy like Las Vegas but the stores and shops are either out of the most bizarre world or from another time.

I love writing because there's always something that's needing to be written about. It's an endless world of different flavors. The flavors of which I could add to my glass of tap water, but I refuse to because I think it'd be considered cheating.

So I hear,
You think you can dance?
Well, I'll show you a dance you have never danced before.
It starts with no music, just my solo and that's about it.
My feet will jitter like the wings on a lady bug.
My knees will shake like the Great 1906 quake.
My hips will move like slow crashing waves. Back and forth, back and forth.
My heart will beat a steady beat like a metronome in band class.
My breath will hasten like a car on a free way.
And my eyes will smile like a dog welcoming his long lost master.



So I hear,
You think you can dance?
Well, I just showed you a dance never danced before

You told me that you would be there for me, were you?
No.
You told me that if I went blind then you would be the one to lead me, were you?
No
You told me that if I cried that you would slap me,did you?
Yes.
You told me that if I died for you that you would continue to live happily, did you?
Yes.
You told me that all things are meant to be,
You told me that if one door closes then you would just open it again,
You told me ..
"Yes, I love you with all my heart."



You told me that you would be loyal, and I that I should trust you.
You told me that we are soulmates and that meant I was supposed to be in chains to serve your sorry ***.
You told me to never leave the house because you would bring the wedding papers to me.
You told me that we could have that sweet apple red 2010 Camaro with white racing stripes down the middle.
You told me that we could have my dream penthouse and your dream pool.
You told me that you would sell all of your **** magazines.



Wanna know what I told you?
No.



I told you, when you finally let your guard down,
That I didn't want for you to be there for me,
I didn't want you to be the one leading me when I went blind.
I didn't want you to be the one to slap me to get me to stop crying.
I didn't want you to continue living happily when I died, I told you I wanted to be the one living happily when you died.
I didn't want all things to be inevitable.
I didn't want you to be the one opening up the same door over and over again, I wanted that to be me, just with a different door.
I told you,
"No, don't say that, I want you to hate me."


I didn't want you to be loyal, I knew I would never trust you.
I didn't want us to be soulmates so I can be the one that you had *** with in the basement after poker nights.



I wanted to leave the house and runaway not have a permanent pigment change on my finger where your rusty ring was.
I wanted to drive that car by myself, but now that you got it and sat your *** in it, I don't want another Camaro.
I wanted that penthouse to be mine, not ours, I'm afraid of water, why would I want a pool?
I wanted you to keep those **** magazines so I could runaway and tell the police about what you've done to those poor models.



Every time...
I should have told you







No...


But every time...
A yes was what formed....



No..
Not anymore...



No.

I killed him
Without any evidence shown.
I wasn't caught,
Only suspected.

He tried to **** me,
he tried to use my womanly parts to make his children to make his ******* family delve further into time.

He was killed by hand,
my hand.
I stabbed him violently in his chest,
And opened the wound and picked out each piece of tissue my slippery fingers would rip from the flesh.

My fingers,
My lap,
my face,
The walls,
and the rope that dangled from the ceiling of which his lifeless body hangs from,
Smothered in such a thick and velvety crimson red...
I think of it as no blood,but yarn.
The yarn my grandmother used to knit her last pair of gloves for the Michigan winter in the 1960s before dying of a stroke.

There was no gun,
no poison,
No witch craft,
just my hands,
And my dad's black four inch black bladed hunting knife and the red gloves of which my grandmother passed onto me.

Dear Officer,
There was no gun, that I left to his ex-wife.

Dear Mam-ma,
There was no poison,
I couldn't get my hands on any.

Dear Papa,
there was no witch-craft, that was just his fortune.

Dear Mama,
Yes, I never remove these red gloves, and there were no tears afterwards just a bright long grin stretched eye-to-eye worn on my face.
This
I killed him,
Because only God and I know how much he deserved it.