stuck in his time
i was a clock.
not flashy, not loud.
just mine.
time passed the way i let it—
slow, careful, soft.
each tick a heartbeat.
each hour a boundary.
then he came.
not with kindness,
not with care—
with want.
with hands like force,
like he thought time would bend
if he pushed hard enough.
he didn’t ask what hour i was in.
he didn’t care that i wasn’t ready.
he took his time—
he took mine.
and when he finished
he left me behind like a broken thing.
not even worth a glance.
just tick…
tick…
nothing.
the clock stopped.
right there.
right then.
and now every day
feels like i’m stuck
in the second after it happened.
hands frozen.
air heavy.
time still moving for everyone but me.
they tell me to move on.
to rewind, reset,
act like the glass wasn’t shattered,
like i’m not still finding shards in my chest
every time i try to love myself again.
they ask why i didn’t scream.
why i didn’t run.
why i let him wind me down.
but clocks don’t fight.
clocks just keep time
until someone breaks them.
and i was broken.
not because i wanted to be.
because someone looked at my stillness
and thought silence meant yes.
i didn’t stop ticking on my own.
he stopped me.
he reached inside and snapped something sacred
and now the gears grind wrong,
and the hands stutter,
and sometimes i can’t tell
if it’s today or then—
if he’s still here
or just inside me.
i’m trying to fix it.
i am.
but no one tells you
how hard it is
to restart a clock
when the person who broke it
walks away like time never mattered.
Copyright © blaire hensley | Year Posted 2025
|