The scent of blisters
lingers in the milky air,
complimenting the tang
of evaporated perspiration.

Festering under my feather stuffed
comforter
I reflect heavily
and endure no more physical activity
than the sun cooked skin on hour old
gravy.
Everytime I itch my pink flesh
I end up with an oily layer under my nails
that resembles cheese.

I am a cave dweller this afternoon.