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My Third World Skin. Rich in Melanin. It won’t turn against me, inspite of the UV; not yet – inspite of the threat, from the CO2 and the dents that you [ ] leave.

You leave.

Abandon me to liver spots, the marks of embraces, the burrowing anger –
In the torrid summer
I smolder, I smoke,
I blow it up into the blue;
I watch those veins pulse
Under your First World skin.

I show you my forearms
Dry, scabby, mosquitoed –
This is a history of my world.
I open your clenched fists,
Linger (too long) on a layer-less love;
I smell your head, kiss it,
Hold it between my palms;
I measure your skull:
This is a history of our world.

I pause as you prepare to go.
Leave something for me here!
Take a bit of me with you!
Return it when you can.

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