At 6:45 it screams:
“GET UP. You’ve wasted enough.”
At 7:00,
it sighs,
“You’ll be late, again. As always.”

I think it judges
my mismatched socks
and the way I stare at the wall
like I’m waiting
for permission
to exist.

It’s just plastic and wires,
but somehow it knows
I haven’t felt like
a person
in weeks.

So I unplug it.
Throw it in the drawer.
Now the silence
wakes me louder
than it ever did.