the incessant running of a faucet,
a clock ticking rhythmically
with the sudden clink of metal on tile.
drip, drip, drip
a flow that's too late to stop
splashes filling the tub
gallons and gallons rushing to supply it.
drip, drip, drip,
crimson on clear creating spools of red colour,
this is it. this is all i'll ever be known for.
i've never seen the end so near.
drip, drip, swallow
it's all gonna be okay
i'll close my eyes and lean back
everything is a headrest if you make it one
drip, swallow relax,
i see dark, fuzzy spots yet feel a burning pain,
i feel so colourful yet soon i'll be gray
so here i'll lay until it's over and i'm found
cut scene, fade to black,
beads that hit like bullets
sudden and painful and take you by surprise
but the damage is only temporary
and then i collect them
and give them sentimental value
which i know is something i shouldn't
because ill only lose them anyway
the other people who have collected beads
they shoot them when they lose them
some days they want their beads back but
they're mine now
and because of that we don't get along
im the one who gave them value
so they're mine and they're never getting them back
i dont remember my first bead
where it came from or how i got it
but one day it appeared
but now it's long gone
i wouldn't worry if i were you
most people never keep their first bead
they go missing after a while
on rare occasion im not being careful
on rare occasion i decide i won't act with ease
im reckless and careless
i pull the trigger, not on purpose in the slightest
maybe i said some things, did some things
knew a little too much about things
but because i pulled the trigger
only a couple will stay, the rest will go missing
and ill never get them back
my beads are weapons that are used against me
they never asked to be shot at me
but once i attached that value to them
they were stuck with me forever
and despite people telling me "let them go"
"the chipped beads, the bad beads"
"you don't need them. they're toxic."
but i keep them because i believe it's worth it
but then because of those few beads i keep
i slowly notice the others disappearing
one by one they're all gone
and suddenly without warning
my barrell of beads is empty
except for the last
and now the beads i once cherished so much
and now in the barrell of another gun
i pulled the trigger again
in someone's house, there's a photograph
it's framed by the front door, almost on display
it's there for visitors to see and believe
and I'm not quite sure how they fall for it.
in the photo is a happy family
a daughter, a mom, and a dad
all smiling and loving and caring and happy.
they see cheery, normal people.
hey deceived they must feel.
but the girl? she was a boy.
she was he who wasn't himself.
he was confined to a body of all pink and bursting with estrogen
he was she who was he who was trapped
and his father hated him.
yelling and shouting "christina! christina!"
tears falling like dumbbells on unsuspecting toes
"chris! chris!" he'd yell back
but only in his brain
because the daddy-daughter dances
had already been attended.
bruises from beatings that couldn't be healed
but the happy photo still hung in the hall
and even as chris watched the rings go
from left hands to right he still hid behind
that perfect, happy family.
and the people failed to see through it.