Birds circled overhead,

much like they do when something‘s dead.

The only thing down in the creek,

are voices that, to me, they speak.

They speak to me when I’m in bed.

They speak to me inside my head.

They speak of things that I must dread.

They’ll haunt me nightly ‘til I’m dead.

And though I’d never pull the thread,

they taunt and tease to go ahead.

They lie and say that it won’t hurt.

They say I won’t lie in the dirt.

But one thing that I know for sure:

The voices like to lie for sport.

‘Cause one thing that the voices said:

They said she’d never wind up dead.

But in the creek, her body floats,

and birds that circled dive and gloat.