The location of the biological clock is complex.
Situated somewhere  between my body
and everyone else's business.
Turning my womb into a property
everyone feels free to voice their opinion on. 

As an elder woman turns to me and says:
"Now you're the only one left! Surely you'll be next." 
Pressure disguised in encouragement. 
One I am hesitant to slander, so I walk away, 
politely, as if it were just a simple fender ******. 

Remarks and expectations thrown at me.
Everyone's opinion picking scabs to wounds 
inside me nobody even knows exist.
Irrecoverable lacerations I will carry with me 
until the end of my days. 

Tik Tok goes the clock; perhaps it was a knock?
The message always the same: "Hurry up or you'll fall behind." 
I slowly reach for the instrument measuring my time,
I tempt my fate a little while longer 
by reluctantly snoozing my biological clock.