Diary of a Murderer

Each time I buried a victim, I repeated to myself: I can do better next time.

The very reason I stopped killing was because that hope vanished.

•

I kept a journal. An objective report. Maybe I needed something like that at the time. W

Each time I buried a victim, I repeated to myself: I can do better next time.

The very reason I stopped killing was because that hope vanished.

•

I kept a journal. An objective report. Maybe I needed something like that at the time.

I’d decided that if the class was lame I would kill the instructor, but thankfully, it was interesting.

The poetry teacher at the community center was a male poet around my age. On the first day of class he made me laugh when he said solemnly, “Like a skillful killer, a poet is someone who seizes language and ultimately kills it.”

This was after I’d already “seized and ultimately killed” dozens of prey and buried them. But I didn’t think what I did was poetry. Murder’s less like poetry and more like prose. Anyone who tries it knows that much. Murdering someone is even more troublesome and filthy than you think

I also kept meticulous records of every step of my murders and what I felt about them.

It was a stupid thing to do.

Coming up with sentences was grueling. I wasn’t trying to be literary and it was just a daily log, so why was it so difficult? Not being able to fully express the ecstasy and pity I’d felt made me feel lousy. Most of the fiction I’d read was from Korean-language textbooks. They didn’t have any of the sentences I needed. So I started reading poetry

The very reason I stopped killing was because that hope vanished

The very reason I stopped killing was because that hope vanished

The very reason I stopped killing was because that hope vanished

“We trouble life by the care of death, and death by the care of life.”

That was a mistake.