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Look at the world
and all the ways
you are not

All the closed doors
are churches, and inside,
the pain-song
of every hungry mouth.

As you turn from that
coldness into the
non-mirrored and ugly
portion of your own decay

You start to make things
from what people think
is disgusting
and sad and unfortunate.

You lick the open sore
you cuddle the fleshy wanting
you inhale the shit steam
and others stay far away.

This is good, you realize.

Now they won’t spoil
with greedy light
the dark, combed delicacy
of your exotic symphony.

You need this ugliness
like the root needs
packed in and forgotten.

This way, when you sprout,
you won’t apologize
for the uncomfortable facts
of your conception.

Your hands will fall open
like petals, and the fruit
from your eyes, and the pollen
from your lips

Will grant all the access
your ego never got
and every door, shattered
will reveal the hungry,

Helpless with longing.

Photo by Olenka Kotyk/Unsplash

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