The Southern Gothic Collective

Hidden from sight and soon to be born into infamy, Is where the body of Martha Tabram lay.  Stabbed thirty-nine times,  The fatal blow had pierced the heart. As from hell was born the dark legend that will haunt the streets of White Chapel forever. Yet Martha holds little to no remembrance as the first murder victim to be photographed. Cast within time in grotesque remembrance; forever a cliff note in an unknown madman's story. The soiled doves forgotten, to the infernal night's bitter realization. Violence is an art the fearful ignore, yet forever hold a morbid fascination for. In a claustrophobic, dingy alley, you awaited death.  Crimson pool, the pains escaped a cold lens embrace to be your parting note. There is no shame in surviving.  There is only sadness,  In an ever-sickening society's cold acceptance of the deemed lesser kind. We are all monsters to exist unfazed. We are all monsters in secret. It is only a matter as to what degree. Farewell, Martha.