peeling oranges in my bed
in underwear and a baggy sweater--no socks.
It's cold in here, and I'm relishing the
goosebumps rising like leavened bread
over my legs.
I like to run my fingers over them
like braille
and read the story of my skin
which begins
once upon a time
on a rainy october night
just a bit after midnight
a girl ate an orange bit by bit,
and tossed the peel in the bin
with an empty beer bottle to keep it
company
and felt
uncannily lonesome.
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