You really are a murderer.
The boy you tormented is still wheezing for air inside me, wounded.
It’s a secret that should never be known, a tribute that should never be written.
But what should I do when his soul whimpers?


I am the boy you tormented with that one look,
the one you mutilated with your deafening silence.


You are guilty of not knowing I was crying behind the mask of smile,
that I was burning inside my cold skin.

Why did you listen to my songs, but not the words?
You were busy watching the fast girls, listening to the minted men.
You heard me scream, but never looked at my face.

‘Loner’, ‘Weirdo’, even ‘Mad’, you called me.

I died seeing you make jokes about me.
I was not mad; I was only depressed! I am.
Then, I became jealous of my shadow;
It comes out only when the sun shines.

How much better would it be, that I only live when all is well?


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