THE LETTER THAT WRITES ITSELF

By Stonehead

It arrives mid-morn, as they often do,

clean, uncreased, no postage due.

No sender, no seal, no ink to betray

the unseen hand that sent it your way.

Your name is there — typed, precise,

the letters neat, the spacing nice.

Not written, no—mechanical, sure,

each key pressed firm, deliberate, pure.

You shouldn’t read it, but you will.

Curiosity whispers, then it kills.

The words are measured, crisp and thin,

laying out your chronicle of sin.

It knows what you stole, what you broke,

the lie you swore, the hate you spoke.

It counts the slights you hid in jest,

the sordid crimes you never confessed.

And then — the end, the final note,

your dying breath already wrote.

Not a guess, not a threat,

but a pledge, long-owed debt.

A midnight slip upon the stair.

Unchewed steak, fume-filled air.

A passing van, a light gone red.

A swimming cramp, a round of lead.

You tear it once, but rip in vain.

You burn it twice, yet it remains.

You shred it small; the ink bleeds through.

Its words are not for paper — but you.

And when the hours fold and fade,

the death it chose is duly paid.

A corpse is found, the scene is set —

a script fulfilled, absent regret.

Then, just before the body’s cold,

the ink stirs fresh, the letters bold.

A new name inked, a fate now told —

and somewhere else, the blood runs cold.

#darkpoetsclub