The pathetic object
I can’t be loved
There are people like that—
miserable ones
Maybe it’s just bad luck.
Who knows? I don’t.
I don’t understand.
Some broken equation
of pity
and too broken ego?
People like me—
they cool off eventually.
Like dead,
collapsed
average-sized stars
that didn’t have enough mass,
not enough hunger,
not enough selfishness
to draw in
hypocritical,
self-interested
love-bound planets
and burn out together.
People like me
live alone
die alone, and in the end,
evaporate
without colour,
without trace or destruction—
bland
even in death.
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Saturday, 19 April 2025
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Copyright © 2009-2023 J. Nemakar. All rights reserved.
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