Few weeks shy of a full circle

Oh dear god— I mean, careless geometry student—
Why did you have to choose a pencil so weak 
Use a stencil so bleak
to make me in the first place?
Did you not know the compass 
of morality 
curving, 
swerving at full speed 
would break the tiny graphite stick whose layers fall off 
like so many on a winter night—
I know they're both carbon, still,
Why do you conflate diamonds with pencil lead?

Now, shining with HB dust, 
Like a tire-skid, here I am
With none the charm of 180 degrees
but all the heat of it;
A few degrees shy of a full circle.

The sign of my existence
is an ugly number drenched in sin, cut
a secant
or veer off on an unrelated tangent,
And those numbers are still not pretty—
watch how they rocket up the graph
to the domains no one bothers travelling.

Domain-less like
This ugly black gash
as if a rip in the paper-thin world I was born in
Marking the sudden end of my reach
The breaking point
of your flimsy pencil
Which left me teetering on the edge, 
precariously close to perfection.

Ah, what perfection, the complete circle,
The true crown of the two dimensions,
The smallest boundary with the biggest space to fill
No beginning, no end, no boring middles,
Just a revolving, hypnotising, blooming locus. 

Ah, lotus-like, what beauty, the complete circle
Cut through, spin, look anywhere
Infinitely symmetrical,
Housing such quadrilaterals
That supplement their lives' opposing angles;
Hidden within its confines, nature's sweet pie of perfection,
I crave but a slice—
Why couldn't you make this boring arc 
come full circle?

But you do, you come full circle:
there you go again, with a brand new pencil
dooming another like me forever—
But... now you've done it!
Most wondrous, a circle!
Why, cruel god, must you wave my own incompleteness
in the fragmented face of my being?

But still, let me look. 

Why does that I see
look so empty?
Perfect, elegant, complete... but not full.
A yawning void stares out from its heart 
with a gaze so still
not even despair can pierce.
A bottomless pit of nothing
that does not even hunger for something, look

It has closed off
into an oblivion
it didn't know it did not want.

Did I not know what I did not want?

The smallest boundary with the biggest space that cannot be filled
No beginning, middle or end— is this existence?
No wonder it's an ouroboros;
They say it's beautiful: 
circle of life, reincarnation, blah blah blah—
But to me, 
a snake swallowing its own tail
has always seemed too much like choking
yourself with the deadness of your own life.

Final like a funeral wreath,
So symmetrical, no supplementing or opposing,
So mechanical, like a tragedy,
Such hollow perfection: it cannot even embrace another
without birthing another deathless void between.

And me? I am no lumpy gibbous moon
for the full circle is a moonless monday night
And I'll keep my highs and lows 
I'll take your broken pencils
I'll take every crooked imperfection
But I hope I never come full circle.