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While your face
foams, swells, and
borders itself like a poor wall without splinters,
I choose the market of faceless women and men.

Here there are no mirrors
but pages
of my mango-green skin,
my smiles and jitters at family videos,
my brows sweating against my drywashed marks of class IV,
and my eyes
lurking at corners
waiting to ask,
why I sold my soul to the devil
for a regular supply
of poisonous words.

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