Untitled by Christopher Poindexter

It is a miserable thing how
I cannot seem to fall in love
with myself. Selfish it may sound
coming from my own clumsy tongue,
but that is where the romance starts,
isn’t it? Inside from one’s own soul?
Rippling out from bones to every
piece of skin one has had trouble
falling in love with?

We have blemishes, we carry scars.
We are tarnished, tainted and decorated
with filth; but beneath the dust, the
dirt, there lives always diamonds,
and behind the cloudy night,
lives always, a sea of endless

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