elektra euphemisms


I   switchblades of

my happiness

as he pours salt

into my wounds

desire burns ephemeral

the scars of his love

in the gift I couldn’t give

we wait in the silent

lies of childhood lost

II   ponderous verbiage

and screwdrivers

my splitting headache

in your house with

my father’s doppelganger

waxing rhapsodic

in between the lines

more in the handshake

than meets the eye

jumping the hurdles of

our habits

III   the hem of my robe is the echo

of one thousand nazis marching

while the beating of my heart

confuses itself with cymbals

of the marching band

the smell of death in winter

(of love or a dog)

mingles with something burning

confusing my senses and

causing me to act in

one rerun after another

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