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Twenty-Three
I felt twenty-three when my skeleton
 crept out from inside me,
 but I had barely lived.
 
 I am an infant, cradled by
 a larger force that I am not yet
 familiar with – the milk
 is never sour, never sweet.
 
 Furthermore, I am an elder 
 whose dialect’s foreign,
 improper for her environment,
 but beautiful in mind. 
 
 Puppet strings linking days 
 are often cut, and I find thread
 to be much too fine for glue:
 
 so, always, I feel twenty-three –
 just in between everything.

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