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The olive oil bottle is gold and heavy,

leaving a dark, greasy ring on the stone.

I stand at the sink while the talk is still merry,

feeling the weight of a life not my own.

I’ve eaten their salt for a decade or more

and laughed till my ribs felt like snapping in two,

but I’m searching for sponges behind the wrong door,

still a guest in the place where I thought I was true.