Again and again
we grease our supple skins,
spread ourselves on the earth
that wants us back,
think we'll go slow
but evening finds us sick
feverish and weak
in our baths of tepid tea.
Here's where I try to say
this might be like love:
turning ourselves 'til
no single cell is spared,
beneath our lids,
"I'll stop before anyone knows
what a fool I've been,
I'll rise from this
just as soon as I'm beautiful."
-Catherine Doty
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