Ticktockticking Poem by Kayla Townshend

There is a clockwork inside of you,
and the switches are switched.
Intead of ticking you screech.
The pulse is a choatic mess of ups and
downs, the way you function fluttering
within the range of malfunctioning,
and they wanted to defect you for it,
but I can't let them.
Some days I am the enemy but most days
I am your ally, a port for the storm
that the ticking brews inside you, winding
you up like a toy to be smashed by a toddler
with awkward gaping teeth and no shame.
Tighter and tighter the body you're confined to
starts to stretch invisibly, stretch impossibly,
until you no longer seem to be bound to flesh,
until the ticking becomes an explosion
and in the aftermath we hunt together,
faces covered, faces blank, through the remains.
Piece by piece they put you back together.
Piece by piece you tear yourself apart,
Until you become the mess of machinery
that no one needs, and you just smile.