(a monologue)

Time—
what a luxury for those
who walk upright beneath golden façades,
cradled by warmth,
traced by plans,
blessed with calendars that
mean tomorrow.

But me?
I live where clocks forget to tick.
Where lamplight flickers
only to reveal the rats,
not the hour.
There are no seconds here—
only heartbeats
that grow quiet
beneath each concrete dawn.

They pass me in haste,
clutching their schedules
like scripture,
offended by my presence—
a blemish on their linear lives.
I watch them
slave to their devices,
willing prisoners
to the stopwatch’s tyranny.

And still,
I do not envy them.
I am time unmeasured.
I breathe outside the tick.
I wake when the cold gnaws
and sleep only when memory fades.
In this silence,
I am free—
not honored,
not safe,
but free.

So laugh,
laugh as I stand beneath your towers
with a shoelace for a belt
and hunger for a name.
I am shattered—yes—
but not silent.
The universe, indifferent,
may crush my form,
but still I speak.

Tell them:
I existed.
Not in hours,
but in endurance.
Not in minutes,
but in defiance.

©️ Beatriz Esmer