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. 

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