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The door is open,
All my insecurities walk in
When you talk about leaving.
Think it must be my face
That tries to efface
Your very existence from my life,
Or could it be my hair
That goes nowhere
Near to complement my style?
Or is it my voice
That makes a weird noise
Whenever it says something out loud?
Or my moustache
That grows whenever it feels like
On its own accord,
And then gives up one day
To stay incomplete,
Just as my beard
Often finds it difficult
To keep up with it.
Is it my fat
That has arranged
For a meeting on my belly?
Or just my age,
That has now become hard to count
On ten slender fingers?
It could be the way I walk,
When I am unsure of my steps,
They often retract.
Or the way I pounce
When I see you around,
Hanging in my local town.
Or that wheezing sound
I often make,
That finds you wide awake,
Were you trying to sleep?
Or that sloppy tongue
That tries to find your taste,
And scoop you out
From your insides.
Or the way I cry,
When my best I try
To curtail a fight,
Or the way I smile,
With all my teeth
Running up wild
To find you talking
To my soul
When you had
Other choices in life.
If it is anything else,
I don’t wish to know,
Because it is my diffidence
That I have grown to know,
And have learned to live with.
It is so vocal
That I know for sure,
It must have screamed at you
To scare you away.
And I am okay
If you want to leave,
I am not a big fan
Of myself anyway.

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