It's twelve and I'm folding in on myself Screams ricocheting off of dyed walls 

Words knotted in matted hair 

With sweat collecting at the ends 

As the world crumples near my bruised toe 

Six is for the breathing 

Muscles flexing in golden light 

As she lives in pieces 

Pieces that can be swallowed whole 

Lips curling at the edges 

Eight twenty and I'm falling 

Spine arching and curving 

Bent at all the wrong places 

With sighs settling into his lungs 

As his hair falls on his face 

Again

Horizontal like a quarter to three 

First times scarred her bones 

Flesh sliced and carved 

Stitched up with golden thread 

Crocheted blankets pool around them 

Five minutes away from four 

As she finds home in its hands 

Bending, resembling; ten minutes to nine thirty Collapsing twice around seven 

Asleep at a minute to four fifteen