The hours mark the fluctuation of her moods, swinging them, a child trying to push another off. The hands progress; awake to quicken to slow to sleep, continuously. The hands almost give her an ulcer every time the alarm sounds, stiffing her up like a board, pushing her out before she's even ready to consider ready.
The minutes congregate one thought after another frantically, a squirrel trying to catch her tail before the sun begins to bake and forces her to stop. Thoughts being scraped up so fast, the stench of fur burnt in the oven. Words birthed with enthrallment only to be discarded later like outer skin no one needs anymore.
The seconds fly by like flies afraid to be caught by senseless palms, flies like seconds, seemingly so quick they are absolutely insignificant.
The years are the most noticeable, the years that ages her skin from custard white to flaky yellow, the years that leaves her with other people's decayed parts.
At fifteen, time was her body, her moon waiting to be deciphered. At fifty, time was no different, no more interesting, no more mysterious than the sight of her toenails curling.