Elle Contre Moi

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She’s holding for a moment
the tattered excesses, those
that vex us with their spangled webs.

I’ve damn near strangled
every thought with the guts
to be expressed.

She’s dressed in discourse
and pressing against me
with the passion of a shipwreck.

I’m decked in a frenzy
of abstract lust, flushed
with confusion.

She is a profusion of truth
quietly flooding the darkest
recesses of the mind.

I bind her symbols to their meaning
with disintegrating twine,
pining for childhood traumas.

She is the drama of the molten sky.
I’m dying in blue compunction.
She punctuates my eyes.

-r. miller

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