It's happening again.
The dripping-
I've counted them and found patterns.
In the drops-
Of water? Because, I've liked to think of them as tears. As if some unknown passages lead to a small person. In a room where they cry, letting the drops run down dark, blue cheeks, wanting to flood my space. They probably don't even know it's mine. They just want to fill SOME space; they want to know that their tears are not wasted. Well, they aren't. I'll enjoy them. I have nothin' to do anyway. They slid me in here a long time ago. They slipped me from her arms. It was because our mother thought it was best. Her beautiful set of twins-twins! How did that happen?t right. They just weren't. The council knew. Our house keeper knew. The grocer knew, the farmer knew, and the contractor knew. They all knew and it bothered our dear mother. So she sent my sister to our grandmother and she sent me to this drippy-place. It's always dark here, too. When it rains the drips go in a special pattern. They go along with the footsteps. The heavy footsteps of the men probably shake more tears from the eyes upstairs. I hate them! They were the same men who came to my sister and brought her to grandmother who has a better place for her and who took me and locked me in here because I took another one and they let the drips go. They let them go! They let them go on purpose! Just thinking of them makes me anxious. Those men in the white coats and silver crosses are still alive. When they come for me I'll take another one. They'll never realize, anyway, because their staff is so plentiful. I should take a nun instead this time, right? They're always exciting. It's getting kind of boring and my fangs are dull.
.
..
...
...
Oh! There they go. I hear them now, and I'm ready.