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Untitled No. 1
When I was born,
I was see-through.
Purple veins visible at my temples,
under creamy white paper skin.
When I was three,
I was scraped.
Patches ripped from falling
onto dewey apple blossom skin.
When I was eight,
I was colorful.
Blue pen sketches doodled
on otherwise tan skin.
When I was fifteen,
I was broken.
Red splotches blooming
on jagged vulnerable skin.
When I was twenty-three,
I was inked.
Black swirls tattooed
on sensitive dry skin.
When I was twenty-eight,
I was breathless.
His fingers lightly tracing
over nervous goose-bumped skin.
When I was thirty-two,
I was shaking.
My new baby sitting
on sweaty naked skin.
When I was fifty-seven,
I was opened.
Tumors taken
from sick cancered skin.
When I was seventy-three,
I was young again.
Vicariously living through grandchildren
despite wrinkly pale skin.
When I was eighty-six,
I was embalmed.
No longer having a need
for my limp, well-loved skin.
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