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PORTRAIT OF MY LADY AS A YOUNG ONION

Her exterior is rough, but thin,
And her skin 
Tears like paper beneath my fingers
Where her scent lingers,
As I reveal white flesh,
Supple and fresh.

What shall I reveal, if I simply try?
I am compelled to peel her layers back and cry.

Her core is young and green
Never meant to be seen, 
And I devour her whole,
Center, and soul.
And I do not speak of her,
But will always reek of her.

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