Ticking like a clock.
Counting down until striking another number, smiling.
He caught you
.
Running around the clock trying to beat time before it's too late.
Am I too late?
Is it my fault that my words can't save you?
Time can't fix this no matter how fast you run.
The hand striking the numbers way too fast.
Slow down.
He's laughing.
You're too late.
His knuckles are on your cheekbones and it's all your fault.
YOU ARE READING
Out Of Order
PoetryPerturbed. Anxiety awaits those who can't distinguish between actions or emotions, therefore never implying what she thought was important. Animosity. Apart from her balancing on the tight rope, resentment tipped her over and down she goes. Deep int...
