Three knives in the kitchen.
The sharpest used,
sharp red stains.
Three blister pack of pills.
All of them empty,
distorted package.
Three strands of rope.
The middle one tied,
blood-tainted noose.
Three bleeding wounds,
three empty painkiller packs,
three-feet-long rope.
Three to the one,
three minutes have begun,
the young girl stays there.
It's been quite a while since I've written these stuffs. I'm pretty obsessed with the number three by now.
