My phone would ring at erratic times
every single night without fail.
“Do you know the time?” mother would
ask so quietly. “I don’t,” was
all I could muster.

Every day the same ringing
buzzing away from my desk.
“It’s ten o’clock dear,” she growled.
The time on my wall was all wrong.
She made me believe her every word.

“It’s six-fifteen. Fix your clock,”
her voice rang in my head. She had
no real clue. Every clock on her walls
told something different; the timekeeper
was just as jumbled as me.

I threw my phone against the wall,
but it was unyielding. “I told you
to fix it, my little one,” she screamed.
There was no escaping her grasp;
time is a never-ending nightmare.

“What time is it?” I fought back.
She stumbled, unsure of herself.
I shouted, “Time is your poison.
I won’t drink another drop!” I shivered,
my phone in pieces on the desk.