The Faucet

The faucet is broken. It has been for years, and though it’s rusted over and reeks of sulfur, the water still runs. It does not let us adjust it, it will not stop or warm, it just trickles contently, whispering to the dented, dyed metal below it. At night it sounds like voices and the whispers are now screams- so desperate, so demanding. I dream of blood drip drip drip drip dripping out the spout- I dream of drowning. I dream I snap and try once more to stop the incessant stream of freezing water, and the metal breaks from my force and I let the water free. I stare in horror at the rust as it becomes a part of me. I rip at my skin to try to force the rust away, but the skin is torn instead and there is only rust, only rust, only rust and water not dripping, but pouring, cascading over bodies it had whispered to me about for nights and it corrodes them so quickly and they are bone clean. I am rooted to the ground. I am pouring, cascading. The faucet is broken.