She cries because it's raining
The makeup trickles down her irrational face,
And she wonders when the sun will come.
I tell her truthfully, when it's ready, though she rejects my input.
She is washing away down into the sewer with every breath,
The place she wants to belong,
With the only things that make sense to her: dead things.
Psychotically, the pistol in her pocket now rests in her palm with its most dangerous point aimed at the middle of my forehead.
And she asks me again when the sun will come,
But I give no response,
Because nothing I say will change her motive.
And she shoots me.