I'm addicted to my favourite
non-existent recreational drug,
cueing in; compulsive lying.

The additional side effects
to my mind, soul and heart,
ain't as bad as I thought.

When I'm being questioned
about my troubling mental health,
I lied straight through my teeth,
that nothing could **** me,
yet I wanted to **** myself
the exact same hour.

I once lied to a friend that,
I will stay by her side
but in actuality,
I didn't even want to
stay in this world

But the biggest lie
that ever happened
is by telling myself
that I will soon be alright,
and lying is my only
coping mechanism

I think.

You know what I love
about this addiction,
is that it's a distraction
from the real harm,
which is self-actualisation,
of my ailing self.

I wish to be
an infamous serial killer,
that targets love-thirsty men.

I mean,
wouldn't it be interesting
to slash through their hearts,
with sharp, flirtation glances,
or cutting through entrails
to look for stomach butterflies,

what about blowing up their minds,
when I don't respond to convos,
and kneeing them with shrugs
till they beg for attention.

alas,
I was victimised,
before I can even morph into
a cold-blooded murderer myself

everyone agrees that you're
tasteless and flavourless
when it comes to
choosing the ingredients
to make the dough for love.

similar to a slice of
cold, leftover pizza,
hated like pineapples
as the toppings,
slapped on like a can of
expired tomato sauce,
cut away like
unwanted crustings,
and being as cheap as
a low-quality mozzarella.

definitely
loved by me
but purely hated
by the entire world.

the school bell rings sharply
at nine-twenty in the morning,
echoes across the classroom,
are the usual 'Selamat Pagi, cikgu'.

fast forward to nine-forty,
boring lessons and classes
requires essay crafting
and dream jobs listing,
instead, we wrote fan letters
to be the filial wives of
members from boybands

fast forward to noon,
we were hooked on stories,
from breakups of social divas
to everyone's future college plans.
those were the days,
that should never end.

fast forward to today,
it's now nine-twenty,
greetings for teachers,
are now meetings with bosses,
essays are now reports,
compadres are now colleagues.

memories are the sweet
in the word 'bittersweet',
and I'm starting
to miss the taste,
every time the clock strikes
exactly at nine-twenty.