Fitted
I woke up drenched in your affluence.
A lonely thread distending out of me,
you had been at work again.
The ever clever tailor of my fervor.
My skin cried colors that I had seen
in your eyes, every bit of me already
missed you. Like an octopus' epidermis,
my body tried to correlate hues...
I had to find some way of remembering you.
A chorus of throbs sang songs
of pitiful hope, with every beat..
I felt what you had left inside of me.
I could see your hands cradling
vitality, you struck chords beneath
my skin..
composing my tone to fit your need.
You robbed me, of me.
And left me in need of you.
I don't know if it was some kind
of slanted self defense,
or morbid curiosity
but my hands became excavators
and I dug deep into myself
hoping to find the answers.
Maybe I could find the notes,
a harmonic map to sympathize
your will with my own.
I just had to understand.
Why.
But there was nothing.
I drug my fingers slowly
beneath the dome of bone
as if I were fishing for hope.
But there was nothing.
No hint of why,
no glimmer of your reflection.
Only a poorly sutured bag
of what could only be described
as frailty.
The adrenaline once thick,
became laxed under the weight
of realization and I choked on
the hysterics of being undone.
I'm no surgeon.
Just a frantic boy bleeding
out in his own living room
staring into his chest,
begging his surrogate heart
to keep beating.
"I don't want to die like this."
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.
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