Yours Truly

Yours Truly
by Andrew E. T. Kron
Yours Truly,
Upon the eve
of April. 1888.
They.
They expelled me
from my post.
They,
the Navy.
Excused me.
They claimed my
mind created me, ‘unsteady.’
Their antidote to appease
my ‘rage?’
Nonexistent.
Their help?
Unwarranted.
Unwanted. Unneeded.
To me, expulsion was
a victory,
of sorts.
I knew my mind to be
as typical as the next sailor.
I promise.
*
For a spell of three years
the only home I knew
was the ocean depths.
Impetuously,
my world altered.
I promise.
*
I took to the Whitechapel square.
London, England.
The rugged street brick,
now my mattress by night.
Months wore on time
and on my silhouetted frame.
Whitechapel had treated me with
a crude reality.
I promise.
*
Whitechapel.
Had tainted me.
I could feel it.
My Naval mind,
that ‘unsteady’ mind
of mine, it truly was, misplaced.
I promise.
*
You see.
Daily,
awakening in the Whitechapel alleys,
constables would ravage me.
Beggars and whores,
young children,
would mock my well being.
My mind was ‘unsteady.’
Now, I could feel it.
I promise.
*
That ‘unsteady’
mind. It changed.
I promise.
A man with an
‘unsteady mind’ can
become anew, you see.
It required time, you see.
But that ‘unsteady’ mind
needed change.
I changed.
At whatever cost.
Or did I simply stay,
unsteadily, the same?
I promise.
*
September, 1888.
Change.
Oh, why it was on
a glorious autumn night that
I first met Mary Ann.
The allure she carried!
Though that of a whore nevertheless.
The girdle and corset provided her
with abundant assets. The most profound of
any wench in Whitechapel.
The incense of her breasts,
astounding, angelic at times.
Her golden locks glistened
that evening.
Painted white, firm cheeks
lips forever red, she was
oh! such a sight.
I promise.
*
Why a glorious walk through
the Whitechapel night
would be in order.
The delicate Mary Ann and
I. Under the stars,
the coal colored sky.
Gratification, possibly enticement
took us to a Whitechapel alley.
Oh! And for a harlot! I’ll remember
Mary Ann as forever so dulcet.
Yet, as loose as a drunk
and providing the moans of a mallard.
I promise.
*
That, ‘unsteady mind.’
That change.
Had produced results.
Thrusting into the depths of
her succulent loins.
Her faint wail fulfilled the
ego of the echo in that alley.
I trickled my pasty hand to
her throat, grasping it in full.
Moaning precipitously
evolved into soft tears.
Both of my hands
clutch her throat in full.
I cannot lie. I promise.
As it was a gratifying
feeling. At best.
Soon.
I left the callow Mary Ann.
To hell.
From Hell.
Whores cannot belong in heaven.
I promise.
*
In what felt an eternity
of the future, occurred
next, instantaneously.
My fingers,
all ten. Now stained crimson.
Both arms, to the elbow,
spattered with a
gravy thick red.
The savor of Mary’s rose
fluid lay firm against
my tongue.
A tinge of sweetness
hit my senses as the
splatter made its way
through my throat.
Perverse, I know.
But ‘unsteady,’ remember?
I promised you.
*
Why! It was just a week’s
time after Mary Ann in soon
came the dearest Annie.
Her fate so similar
to Mary Ann!
Soaking in her own bloody bath.
It was a staggering sight
to see.
I promise.
*
Time again,
gently passes on.
Silly-coated blue men,
pursuing a man
they would never find.
No one
would forever
find me.
I promise.
*
It was some period
later in which I made
my Whitechapel return.
Still unexposed,
shrouded in the darkness
of Whitechapel’s serene alley’s.
Charm, enchantment,
it carried, continued
my reign upon
the next minx to
grace my path.
For it was but a
chance that very evening,
the one I had returned,
came the delish
yet incisive Eliza.
I had never met a
moll of her caliber.
As I was so unaware
a quean had such a
devilish mind. Though,
that mind is now
something of the past.
I promise.
*
I blissfully recall the
elegant design of maroon
parading down her neck,
trickling to the pavement
from her hardened  nipples.
So glorious.
I promise.
*
More time, the corps,
an eye, maybe even Holmes
himself now on my trail.
I can be a sly man, yes.
But never forget, an
‘unsteady’ one as well.
I promised.
*
There was too…
Catherine. Ha! A howler.
Her tongue now lay
in my daily sack.
Mary Jane. Evisceration.
Imagine.
God could not even
repair her
body, or soul.
I promise.
*
Maybe I have always been,
unsteady.
And now we know.
But my misery and malaise,
it is so joyous!
A world shall be better off,
with gentleman like me.
And, I do promise.
You shall know, forever more.
Forever, and ever more.
That I am,
Yours Truly,
J.T.R.