The tape recorder is rolling,
and I take a drag from my cigarette.
He sits across from me,
holding my gaze and refusing his debt.
He is kind and quiet,
wearing a pleasant suit,
he thinks he can truly fool me,
like he can get away for good.
But his ghostly silence
doesn't change his ghastly thoughts,
his sickening desired burns like tar,
his inner evil oozing out,
covering all the people he's shot.
I breathaly ask him to confess,
ask where he got all those pills
and knives and guns,
but he shakes his head, he won't spill.
He will never talk again,
and this conversation will just be recorded
as a eerie, dead silence between
me and myself, disregarded.
Unimportant.
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