The Birth of Vanity

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Shivering and sock-less at seven, I creep.
The tips of my toes and heels grazing the floor
The crisp tile shaking me all the way up.
I climb to the height of the crayon stool.
I watch myself.
Ruffled bark hair askew over sandy skin
Blue flannels, blue eyes, cream teeny teeth,
Contorting my features and laughing
To see what will happen in the glass.

I meet myself.





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