I do not like the skin I’m in -
It’s dotted, dry and wrinkled,
Like paper with a reject poem -
Once smooth, now sadly crinkled.
Each little tap becomes a bruise,
A purple blotch, attesting
To all the years I’ve spent on earth,
A dermal-type divesting.
Some freckles, not here yesterday,
Have multiplied and scattered.
They would have bothered me much more
When my appearance...
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