He talked to me,
In a slow and steady sarcasm.
It's one of my native tongues,
And I speak quite fluently.
My tongue is still sharp enough
To cut myself on.
Leaving the conversation
Cold In a pool of blood
On the ground.

Like a cigarette, you **** slow.
I pull you tight against my lips.
You fill my lungs with smokes,
Damaging me inside, with each puff.
With the greed to have more,
I keep searching for you.
You are the deadly addiction,
That I need at nights before I sleep.
So blind in my desires, I can't see...
The warning of danger on the cover.

©rupsa_chak