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.