Words: Blood

Clock over your head keeps

time unchecked

Don’t know if you hear it

But it’s ticking, I tell you

Well, everyone tells you

Then your hands

cover your ears, like

you’re fucking five years old

And time is a stillness,

an elastic moment

stretching beyond

broken gears

and grinding metal.

That’s okay, I guess.

Just promise me

you don’t start listening

when the clock stops for good.

I can’t stomach the thought

of you

hearing all that silence


I don’t know if the time I carry—

If you dropped it long ago

Or if you’ve got it

somewhere secret

and safe.

But I carry it,

and it’s heavy,

(the weight of a sunny morning on a brick wall, jumping on a trampoline clutching two wooden stakes like swords, daring each other to drink poison and fighting over nothing, scraped knees on scooters wheeling like wind down the road toward home)

The ways I

could have been better,

I carry that alone.

Do I drop it

when the clock stops?

I can’t set it back.

If I ever tried hard enough. Did I?

Did I do my part,

To break the time for you?

Because it breaks me,





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