You kept on stabbing my heart with darts called Lies. And just before I take that last breath, you feed me with lies again, not as darts this time; but as elixirs. I push you away for the hundredth time, and you choke my throat the moment you find me vulnerable. You hug me to say it's okay and I wish I could tell you that no it isn't and that I know of your lies. Well, I hug you back anyway. And I feel the smirk of yours on my shoulder knowing that you won, again. I like the lies you hold. It makes me feel like the way a cheap cigarette would. Your stale lies are just as pretty as the lies a cigarette holds. You'd say it's simple and that I over think and stuff, and so I wish you could see through my darkest secrets like I can. But, of course, like to any other person, I don't let you through. Just until my heart where you can beat and scratch it enough, but never through. I want to hold your stare and tell you about the warm memories and the faint possibilities. About how I talk to you in poetry and communicate in metaphors. You feeded on me, and all I could do was sip whisky all night, puke in the twilight, and surrender myself to you by the morning. I would drink till my eyes give up, and leave my heart open to the venoms.
The love you have is shaded in colours of brown. Parasitic. Sucking on my half-filledness, till I am composed of void. I want you to say you miss me, but you miss some other guy who loves someone else. Here, with a fat bottle of rum on my right hand, a cigarette between my lips, I forward my left asking you for a help, a favour - do not hold my hand, do not take it. Let go.
- @taken.by.art._ / Rohan Roy.