unrequited love is a

beautiful thing,


imperfect, and

untouched by filthy



but beauty is cheap

for it surrounds us.

even the cockroach nibbling

at the dead skin on my foot

is beautiful in its battle

for survival.


collecting these beautiful

things is like

collecting cow dung –

there is only so much

of your hut you can cool

by its slathering on the walls.


and all incomplete things

burn you inside

cell by cell.

but it feels good

to be born

once more.


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