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20 Beauty Regimen The bottles and tubes on my vanity make my room a factory with no union. I’m the scab, eager for a few nickels. I build piecework in and around hangers. I’ll find the face in the marble if I’m diligent, reads the affirmation in the mirror. I rinse my face’s one thousand minutes and look for the mistakes, which is not to say I’m not beautiful. If I could finish with erasure, I’d prop my face on a stand to keep the dust from it. Before bed I look at women’s magazines for myself, an old familiar slice. I rub envelope fragrances against my neck like they’re mash notes about the slippery inference of my lips. The tv casts its viridian glare, makes me a tepid silhouette against the mouse hole. The hole’s a shadow tunnel into my chest, one-way ticket. If only diligence were love. ...

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