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Veronica's secret

Veronica’s secret is tucked away in a hidden closet
in the darkest corner of her mind, percolating,
whispering to her when she is quietly alone.
She takes it out on Thursdays and Saturdays
when no one is looking; caressing and fondling it
like an emerald she can never afford to own.
She goes there, crawling the carpet naked,
salivating in his collar and leash, groveling,
begging to be beaten with a black leather whip.
She wants it dangerous, touching her dreams,
one hand up her dress, the other around her throat,
screaming her confessions of sinful desire,
writhing like a working-class whore in heat;
a motorcycle Madonna reaching for the heavens.

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