Where has it been?
It was mother’s and father’s perfect
And then—
What does it show?
An encasing color
Without me—
Where does it go?
Underneath and then
Gone.
Should I love it before?
What part?
The clean or the rot?
All of it?
But it is treacherous.
It is treacherous skin.
And it is mine.
Must I follow?
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