Like the iterations of needles
On the edge of a pine.
Humans are meant to be happy
And this is their state."
I may be just a depression
In this patchwork of joy
That all humans say they should feel
But what does that make me?
Bliss is the purest form of happiness
Like pure coconut oil,
Too nourishing, too rich for skin,
Lipids too long for our cells to understand.
And yet we marinate ourselves in it
As if one day our pores will say
"Oh yes, this is what we needed
All along." But cells know best.
They know what they are
When we lie
Why we do it.
And so the oil stays on the surface,
Shallow and slimy, slippery and thick
With fat.
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