The Perfect Crime

The Perfect Crime

 It wasn’t with knives my heart he tore when he brought me to death’s door.  It wasn’t his hands that had me slain— but he had killed me all the same.  Cold and callous with no remorse, he turned me to a walking corpse.  And I am imprisoned in this pain, while he without the slightest blame— free to do it over again.  

— LANG LEAV

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