She feels like Sherlock Holmes has been combing her hair
All full of sleeping moths’ metamorphisizing inside her
Mysteries keep cutting out the electricity
On the edge of a verb
She could feel the devil dancing
To the rhythm of thunderstorm tongues
Wet with metaphors
Now shame is the shadow of love
And Sherlock Holmes is kissing her nipples
Twanging tongue to fire thigh
Cause freedom is a fleeting feeling
With the forest wedged between herself and the world
Deconstruct the layers
While she shifts to lessen the pain
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