when i was a kid
i had a brass
pocket watch
with glass cut outs
in which i could
watch the gears
as they clicked
and i would sit
and wind the
little dial and
stare as the springs
compressed tighter
and tighter until
finally i watched
as the small coil
snapped from the
imense pressure
i manically applied.

a self fulfilling
prophecy in the
hands of innocent
curiosity in a
clear display of
the anxieties that
would eventually
wind my organs into
a colorless paste.

now i spend my days
repairing machines
rather than fixing
the broken gears
skipping in repetition
chattering convulsively
in metallic disarray
through the fragments
of cellular decay
echoing in lavender
through my hollow skull.