The attic is no place to live—
but it’s where I hide,
among clocks leaning against walls,
their faces turned away.
There’s a kind of shame in being watched
when time isn’t yours to keep.
I know they’re scheming—
like men in trench coats,
hands hidden in their pockets.

Words escape me now.
I hear them as they slip—
trickling out sideways,
like strangers running through fields
where nothing flowers.

They’re bright, buzzing—
fireflies, too quick to catch.

Once,
I trapped silence in a jar.
I named it Weekend
and made it swear not to leave.

For a while, it did.
I told myself
it might stay forever.
But silence is clever,
it knows how to sneak away quietly—
and now mornings are like Mondays,
with thin, pale faces
peering through the glass,
watching,
tight-lidded.

Nothing speaks here—
not even the coffee.

The windows are painted black—
someone thought it was kindness,
thought it was better this way—
now, no one, not even the light,
can find me and trap me
in a jar.