“They say that time heals all, then why is the second hand cutting me? Reminding me of all the times your hand was in mine and my second hand was only killing time. The closer to death, the closer to life and my second hand was always empty except for this knife.”
I know what I wield and I know all the words that wield me. Carrying and begging me to take the time that others kill so cowardly. When people say “killing time” it always implies that it is a waste. I’d like to take control of the clock and let it know who is really in control here. It may not be able to be stopped, but neither am I. I look at the seconds and it looks into mine, daring me to make the first move and I always comply. My days may be numbered now, but never counted down. My time can only be measured in the moments I have made, whether they were for you or me. My words stand like fucking sculptures that can’t be brought down and as long as you utter them, time will always owe me.
