She was so happy,
so happy in a bothersome way,
because in her happiness,
I saw a reflection of my own
cruel unhappiness,
a pathetic kind the repels other's
joy,
and I,
being no robber,
and she, neither a lover of mine,
I did not have any means,
except to crawl back into my
unhappy crib,
to be alone,
by myself,
unbothering,
and not bothered
as if allergic to
happiness
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