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You can polish yourself until the day you die, but you’ll still be defective.

Deep down in my core, I burn a fire as hot as ice,
jagged as it may seem, my flesh is a slave
to glaze, touched in the night, by a hand, cold
frigid upon my skin, I’m covered by crystals,
deep, I feel them, slicing through,
touching my core, and melting its armor.

Sometimes we have to accept the inevitable, or give in to damaging icicles.

Categories: Poetry
Tags: #Life

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