Because I Let Him In

I would gladly just be silent
then be shot in the head,
I said,
but he shot me anyway.
I'm dead.
But my cold, dead eyes are moving,
and they follow him around,
they follow him, this man, this man who busted down my door.
He is a freak.
He eats the things of in fridge, all the things of my fridge...
but then he wants some more,
so he turns and eats the door.
Do I say to him, hey! That's new! You can't eat that door, it's new!
Do I say, that paint might make you sick, or, hey, there's a bug in my eye.
Do I say these things at all? I do not.
I lay here on the floor, I'm dead.
I'm dead because I let him in.
I let him in to fix the bed.
It squeaks.
The bed squeaks, it still squeaks, but I guess
I guess
I guess
it always will.

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