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I write backwards.
Think backwards.
Live backwards.
Less than a quarter of a person,
I soak up ungodly light
and accomplish nothing,
fixed in an unlovable daze;
vulgar stenches crawling under
the crack of doors,
I wait for the pending happiness
from a server that was smashed
the day I realized the stars I loved to look at
were already dead.
Selfish tastes continue clinging
to raw temptations,
hanging in the air like spoiled milk,
this unscarring canvas
clings to my mind
and shakes a different pain
down to my fingertips.
This pain only goes forwards.
And I just keep waiting
to be born.

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