The little hand strikes to mark the passing of another hour
I press my palms into my sockets and scream
For I am my mother
The woman who would cut out her own insides
Season and cook them to a medium rare
To be sure her lover would never grow hungry
He drank from her fountain daily
And then had the audacity to furrow his brow
When the well dried up and the drought came

One summer
When he came to her fountain
To wash the smell of another woman off his body
She could not even produce tears
He had sucked her dry
And left her body pruned on the ground
And like clockwork
He let tears run from his own eyes
There can only be one victim here  

Like clockwork
Here I stand
My mother’s daughter
My well sucked dry
My body pruned on the floor 

And there you are
Flaunting your tears like diamonds in front of my dehydrated body
And like every woman in my lineage
I will pull myself up off the ground
And hold your needy body
Like clockwork

- Insanity For The Clockwork

Poetry by
Devin McCarthy