The clock on the wall is too loud.
The ticking fills my ears. It grows louder but never reaches a crescendo. So it keeps crashing away, and all I want is to bury my head in the wall.
Cars rush through the night outside. And I want my heart to slow down from the hundred and fifty bpm marathon it’s on. For the past hour? minute?
The clock never fails. But I never can keep up with the wasted seconds.
I curl up tighter, a cold ball. Frozen feet.
Crushed screams in my clamped mouth.
And it is deathly quite inside.
And it’s only the clock. It never stops as it counts away my time.
I try, I do. To climb out of this, whole. But the more I thrash, the deeper I dig myself in.
I have so much love to give. I have so much that I want to give. But who wants more than they need, when they’re already filled to the brim in their little lives? And I despair for what I could do, for what I could give. So much to love. So much for love.
Like Poe’s tale of the tell-tale heart, the clock on my wall is always too loud.
Spiral into me 