Nevermore

It hurts when you say that you don't know if you love me. You are so much cruel at me. I don't know how I can write it. How say it. You're so cold. Your voice. I hate you for this but I can't stop love you. I read your blog diary. It's more painful. I know. I must stop think about that. But I can't. There is one big wound in my hearth. No one and no thing means so much for me as you. I did nothing to you. You tear me apart. Why did you write something more optimistic on your blog? Why are there so big doubts like that day?
I am scared. I am scared and afraid of you all the days since it happened. Even if I'm not looking like this and saying so. I am going to be more closed towards yourself.
Your still loving llz

Painter's Fingers

Once a watched my hand and fingers. Small hand, natural long nails, ring from my grandma and mum (family legacy).
"It draws," I said to myself and moved with my hand. Yes. Draws, writes, give me food. How can I push whith this someone?! With so small hand.
It's scary. I have scary hands. Thin fingers, dry and hackly. My hands are often cold. That's why I feel corpsy in many times.
What my hands can do? Kill someone? No! Not again. I'm not a murder.
But I can paint portraits of my victims. Pale, somewhere blue skin, creepy red eyes - deadly eyes, long brown hair.
Yes, my dear hands, we're murders anymore. Even if there's no real blood and bodies. Prefering Madder Lake Deep gouache more than blood.
I am murder.
Who never killed anyone.