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I am wearing the top
I wore last night,
the one with the orange blossom print
which you admired,
and jogging bottoms I don’t remember
getting into.
On the floor, a pile of bedclothes
on which I vomited
sometime in the early hours,
sitting up in bed
composed as a Buddha
bile splashing darkness,
and that thought again —
how filthy and miraculous this is,
the inside forcing free
as if I might bring up my own heart
or a kidney in its sack
there to be examined
on my lap.
No duvet then
but a towel and blanket.
It is 11.23 and May and raining softly.
My legs have sprouted stubble in the night.
Mascara smuts
the skin beneath my eyes.
I don’t do anything but lie still
listening to the rain.
Last night I was beautiful.
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