The cactus pricks my fingers,
but I don't care,
I can't, I won't let go.
Blood trickles from my fingers.
It's better for me to hold on.
Without the cactus,
I'm incomplete.
Letting go may keep my blood
from having to be shed,
but it won't keep my heart,
from bleeding out everything I love.
Even if it's unrequited love,
I still need it.

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