hourglass

hands fumble blindly, clutching onto everything they touch, desperately testing. 

anything as long as it’s sharp. 

the idea of the hourglass, too full of sand – why does it have to be so full? – a thought that has crashed through reality, shattering sanity. 

there’s no version of these grains of sand playing out where she sees herself happy. 

a sharpness cuts through it all, a contrast against the heavy weight of the sobs in her chest. a sting, a burn, a guilt – a relief. 

there’s a sick pleasure in watching the roses bloom, petals falling as the sand falls with a growing momentum. 

one drop. one more grain. one less day.