What must we have done
to the gods
for them to curse us
with such violent need
to search for utopia
Even our skin is imperfect
and from time to time
stops stretching,
impolitely choking the body
without warning
There is no such thing
as a penitent human
Ultimately
it is unimportant whether or not
you strike back
If I am to be truthful, then yes,
I am ugly
What you see are pencil marks
dug too deeply for erasers
to forgive
We will always be willing
to drag each other, screaming
through mud and spines
We search
We are cursed
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