Slip Up. 

“Alright, I will.” 

Those words slip out of those chapped lips so easily. 

Like a habit of the tongue. 

Words of concern and reminders of love just miss your ears; 

Leaving unreturned kisses on your dry skin and messy hair instead. 

Listening is an art, and in this area, you are a person of excuses and desperate reasons. 

“Okay. Next time.” 

Your eyes always dazed and red and heavy; 

Bags forming and ageing from skin to tiredness to exhaustion. 

Hands reach out to embrace you but only to half-hearted presence and peeling wounds on fingers. 

“I will take care of myself.”

Again. Again. Again. 

Your body is a temple of smoke, alcohol and sleepless nights. 

No structure; 

Just the endless suffocating freedom. 

They say that sleep is for the weak or a permanent death, 

But I see your body breaking down from the inside out. 

Veins rebelling and breath shallowing and thoughts slowing. 

And I think they forgot to tell you that sleep is also for the healing 

Of the body, mind and soul. 

My desperation translates to nonchalant infliction of hurt on your weak muscles. 

You are becoming soulless and your body is no longer there; you miss nothing and everything at once. 

I just watch on with a silent scream on my face because my voice never reaches your automated, hibernating heart. 

– 

If you are not tired of listening to your own dying voice speak all these reasons, I am. 

Today, I choose to take care of myself and raise the White flag. 

No more. 

Quiet War. 

Quiet war always sparks past midnight
Bubbling and overflowing like detergent spilled in a cold bathtub 
Crying loudly uncontrollably and shallow breathing 

No oxygen mask and life vest to pump the nonchalant air into a drowning heart 

Forced hugs quench no thirst 

And just serves to suffocate the burning lungs of desperation and frustration 

Start fuming and transforming black as charcoal of burned wounds 

Dyeing gauze flowers red while plasters tear skin apart 

I am a garden with weeds and withering daffodils 

Pale yellow and mouldy green 

A youth wasted 

And dreams forsaken  

One more life innocently taken

Untitled #23. 

Some days, I read about the silver linings that life has to offer. 

Some days, there would be double rainbows to chase or good decisions to make. 

Some days, people would come forward to give you a glimpse of their tiny fragile heart. 

Some days, you light up a cigarette but you never bring it to your lips and just watch it burn. 

Some days, books tell you what to think about beauty, hope, love and yourself. 

Some days, beyond on big words with little meaning and little words with big meanings, I think it is about believing in yourself. 

Threaded. 

Obsession and habit 

Searching for reason in irrationality 

From your loose braid forming shadows

Down your eyeless back and away from your bright irises 

Careless fingers caressing different strands

Strand after strand after strand to understand and 

Tugging tightly at thin threads of tales and truths 

Until fragility betrays and they break 

So you lose them again. 

(hidden lessons) 

  1. My life is just another number. 
  2. My youth is just skin.
  3. My sex is cheap. 
  4. My body is a commodity.
  5. My gender is unaccountable. 
  6. My skills are luxury. 
  7. My decisions only secondary. 
  8. My thoughts weightless.
  9. My flesh is weak. 
  10. My words are mute. 

Thank you for reinforcing these every day. I will learn these, someday, and etch them on my secondhand Made-In-China plastic heart for all to see.