When The Clock Strikes Eleven

I don’t recall the last time I had anything of substance to say to you.

To be frank, I don’t even miss the days when I still didn’t have a clue.

But I know better now – some people can love you and get it all very wrong,

And there’s no reason to cry about it because storms don’t last too long.

Even if I found the sentence that would unlock your walls and fences,

I wouldn’t have the patience to fight your love, so fragile and defenseless.

All the misery weighed too hard on me, so I asked my people for help.

They confirmed what I’ve been suspecting – you had prosecuted yourself.

I carried your limp body on my shoulders for weeks, then months.

My own legs collapsed but you insisted that the heart wants what it wants.

Now I don’t have the heart to tell you that we’re dead and rotting away

Because you haven’t had the courtesy to show empathy in ten days.

If you can’t see that your own silhouette is blocking your ladder to heaven,

You can get these empty niceties back.

I will kill them when the clock strikes eleven.

-Jackie