Cavernous

Skylar Klease

I spend most of my days Bruised in Blue and impinged upon. Scratched and Scarred from Barb-wired friends. Who mistake my Skin For a Cardigan.

Paralysed in Purple Waiting for a face to fit The shape of my ache. Rendered hapless, Shapeless, and Gummy. Nothing but plum, Numb, A bag of grape Sour Patch Kids.

I spend most of my days Scorched in Red, By that Royal Gala Radiator, Raptured on my Sleeve. By that gargantuan furnace, blazing between my ribs. The one that heats your frosty fingertips, That beats behind the slope of my chest, Where your head indents.

Tender Burns, Swollen swatches of Flesh: The price at which I pay For Loving Tenderly.

I spend most of my days Away for Good Favour. Sparing myself from the feelings, Found in the melodies that weep me to sleep. Saving myself from a Time when Tenderness wrecked my ___ Leaving me winded and wrought.

At this Time

Tender heart of mine, Was lulled softly. She Broke quietly In Shut-Door Privacy. Was Stung, Sliced and Scraped from the Sharpness Of Sentimentality.

At this Time Weeks washed over me. The tidal waves that were; my kernelled cul-de-sacs, and blizzardous blunders

Flooded my ear canals in fluorescent labyrinths.

So, I could not hear you— —Softly treading, Floating past my cartilage. Rhythmic beating of Heartbeats and Humdrum.

So, I did not see you— —Taking stock In my primordial soup.

It was a blindness Deafness, Senseless Past.

I was ripe for Tender’s taking.

I spend most of my days

At bay with ardent fervour, Avoiding memorabilia that offsets my melancholy.

To relinquish myself from the Time where Tenderness stained my Skin.

In shades deeper, than any; Blue, Purple or Red.

At this Time

I’d lay facing your back. Tracing the rivers and valleys, between your shoulder blades. Finding consolation in Sacredness Withheld.

I’d lay in pearly white sheet; Listening and Curling, Cavernous & Chattering.

Craving heat You do not bestow.

I’d be sleepy, bitten by impossible patience. Dense with acrylic, pastel, oils From painting the Spine and Torso You turned away from me.

It was a Tiresome, Lonesome, Burdensome Long Ago. A Wage Not worth the Cost.

I spend most of my days Cavernous; Cool from Deep Heat, Crouched in Green Sheets. Waiting for the Face of my ache

To halt its time, away from me. Waiting for your warmth

To return to the ramp between my breasts.

Raw and Frozen Indented Chest.

The Pain and slow Decay Of Loving Tenderly.