the faces of people who obviously hate themselves at least sometimes
possess a beauty that is difficult to capture
often it is a beauty that really best exists in motion
the beauty that pours out of them against their will
and in spite of the loathing they feel for what’s in them
a beauty pours from them in spite of their best efforts
to restrict what they emit for fear of letting out some godawful evil
they do not like the way their faces look, still
it is not possible for them to be enough pleased
by the sweetness, the transcendent sweetness that spills
out of the furnace of themselves inside of which they’ve tried
and failed to burn so much away