Tracy Liao

The Revolt That Never Happened

Voices echo through my head,

my numb body pushes away the dread.

“Look at Tracy, she’s so well-behaved,”

little did they know she always caved.

As they say: pins and needles sting,

a thin red string,

clinging to a life so well-known,

dangles simply by a thread.

What should she do instead?

Faces full of disgust,

betrayed trust.

Pins, needles, and bristles go a fly.

That’s what I do best after all,

instilling chaos,

and splattering red paint in the reply.