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MORNING

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It is 7am and I am trying to fix my face.

 

At its edges, hair

winds into disobedient inchworms.

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Beneath the eyes, dark circles 

reveal the suffering of an insomniac.

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Behind lips, big teeth -- 

overbearing mother-in-laws,

who butt in at every opportunity.

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On the nose, freckles persist --

an ant colony whose foot soldiers 

rise again and again

through the clean of the surface

despite all efforts at eradication.

 

Who invented the mirror, I do not know.

But I am Narcissus, bent to my own reflection,

reading it each morning 

with the grimace with which one reads

bad fiction;

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mouth downturned, brows depressed

in veiled fascination. 

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