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Holes and Tape

It’s so easy to blame
That far off face
Of tight “perfection”
When I look at myself
And see nothing
But tiny holes
That let leak
The posture I seek
Patched by peeling tape
Held aloft by creaking cords.

But upon inspection
Of “perfection”
I see that she herself
Is nothing but holes
With slightly more
Capable, cosmetic,
Patches.




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