Drip, drip, drip.
Crying down the broken sink again.
A habit he’s had since he was ten.
The only friend that could see his tears.
It was his only comfort for all these years.
His emotions were normal, yet could not be shown.
His eyes became faucets when he was alone.
Suddenly, the pipes began to leak.
Water rose quickly; it made him shriek.
Locking the door had left him trapped.
Drowning in his own tears; how ironic is that?
No one would hear his muffled shouts.
Had he let someone in, they would have let him out.
Drip, drip, drip.
