It's 3:45 in the mourning,
the current horizontal disposition
of the clock hands
match the lines
which I recently engraved
upon my wrists
I feel my blood drip to the floor
the constant "pitter patter" of the droplets hitting the floor
coincide with the incessant "tick-tock"
of the second hand
slicing the hours into minutes,
minutes to seconds,
a self-proclaimed guillotine of time
I've waited for your call,
For so long I cant remember
And Now I Lay here
bleeding,
hoping you get my message,
That I've left on your machine day after day
praying you understand
