When I am at home, alone inside, why am I so discreet? Closing the bathroom door, even on the second floor, where no one could peek if they tried; or coughing with a hand covering my mouth, who cares if the germs, like butterflies, seem to fly about; or if I eat the last of the ice cream, good grief, who’s to see and admonish me for being a frozen dairy thief; or say to me – don’t drink all the wine, save it for your wife or someone else who stops by the house next time; Or stop me from playing with my knife –it's my life, who cares if the wrist is too close to the wish to make sense of this?
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