Cave

BY ANGELICA KRIKLER



The other me, she skins roadkill with her teeth, gives a powerhouse performance

No counselling soy sauce windowsill freesias

She does not part for him or think of tea cakes at a seaside cafe or broken crayons on the floor

Bells forget to ring so she continues to write lovely things, swinging on the hammock of her childhood, creaking like an old boot, tied by tender hooks to a tree which offers her rotten apples

Thoughts are puddles of nothing, no pink sadness

She walks on a filament roof, spurns a lifetime of tiptoes, and it will cave one day, not from her stride but from some jazz song or a kiss or an orange from a branch, it will awaken and then obliterate her

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