Run Her Maze Poem by Delilah Miller

It's been said
(hasn't it)
that there are girls you don't marry.
Too much like Roman candles,
she fiecerly melts your resistance
and you're so reluctant,
the skin you had to taste
starts to taste a bit like lemons.

You run her maze;
she gives you resentment to carry.
You get so angry;
she grins to see you deny it,
like she does every day.
Problematic, pretty and wild,
isn't she?
Or is it that she's surprisely sensual
and never quite beautiful?
A cloth a shade too dark,
too bright a painting
to see every day
hanging in your kitchen.