There is a clock resting above a fireplace that hasn't seen a fire in twenty years.
It is fifteen minutes slow and it has been for quite some time.
I used to take it off the mantle and manipulate the dials so as to allow it to correctly display the time.
And my mother would turn it back again.
I never understood the reasons for this,
and I still don't.
And god ******, this clock has no significance and this metaphor slipped my mind as soon as I thought of it and I can't think of enough ways to say I'm sorry.

I have not a voice
to properly enunciate
the fears and terror I experience
on a daily basis,
nor hands stable enough
to sign the loneliness
that wastes me.

there's nothing quite like
a blood soaked sweater
and a near death experience
to put in perspective
i deserve so much more

I can be alone.
I spent two years perfecting the art,
and I may spend some time practicing it.

I just hope someday the phone will ring,
and that the caller is happy and healthy
and whole.

Do they know why I cry
do they know
do they know I eat and eat
and purge and purge
Do they know
why I dare not speak his name
Do they know  why I'm scared
Do they know why I beat myself
Do they know why I let myself be beat
Do they know what happened when I small
Do they know what made me into this.

Do they know
Do they know a thing
anything
one thing
something
Do they know a clue
to complete my puzzle.

no, they don't,
they don't know.