It started with a giggle from the shower grate,
right around the time I stopped sleeping late.
Something in the drain began to hum,
tapping out riddles on the porcelain drum.
I leaned down close, thought I heard my name,
wrapped in crackle and a sweet mind-game.
Then a voice said, “Hello, we’ve met before,”
right as water bled beneath the floor.
Whispers in the drain, singing lies in rhyme,
promises of secrets buried in grime.
They laugh like clowns and cry like rain,
there’s a party tonight in the whispering drain.
I fed it pennies, I fed it teeth,
it whispered dreams from the pipes beneath.
Said, “Truth is a puddle, best left stirred–“
and laughed like a child who just learned a curse word.
Now every faucet’s got something to say,
and the toilet moans when I walk away.
The sink throws shade with a sarcastic drip,
and the tub sings lullabies after I slip.
My showerhead said I’m “delightfully broken,”
while the drain gurgled truths better left unspoken.
And if you lean close, it’ll let you see–
what’s left of your soul swirling counterclockwise in glee.
Now I sleep with the faucet turned full blast,
to drown out the guilt and forget the past.
But every drop hums a memory I’ve slain,
a chorus of ghosts from the whispering drain.