I have broken every single watch
that I’ve ever owned—
some, I’ve stepped on,
some I have merely touched.
one, I broke three minutes
after I bought it.
So when I say that "time hates me",
I’m not exaggerating. time literally fucking hates me—for breaking its hands, for silencing its anthem. tick-tock, tick-tock goes the clock no more when I hold it in my own.
Maybe this is why I am always late
by a minute, my fate by four, and I never seem to have enough of it for myself.
Maybe time wants to teach me a lesson, let me know that I am running out of it and it won’t bother to chase me around.
I am afraid that when I really need it,
it may not be there to lend an extra hour.
I am afraid that in my last one it will tell me, “No, I will not give any more of myself to someone as careless as you...”
