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Cameltoe of the Soul.

No, that’s not extreme
enough. It is not simply
that something seems
wrong. No,

no.
Nothing feels
right. Something
uncomfortable resides,
writhes inside, relentless,
so obvious to keen
third-eye onlookers,

see-through
in the form-fitting
ego, yoga pants
of the inner self,

the act of insides 
screaming out,
summoning attention 
like the soul’s camel toe.

Just another psychic amputee
dying, dying to pick
the phantom wedgie within,

beyond every pale,
rock every boat,
gone against every
goddamn grain:

no closer
to successfully
scratching, picking.

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