And I don't know why I fall in love with such
self-destructive things.
When I first come across them,
I truly do believe they will numb the pain.
I didn't think you would **** me.

And I will not lie to myself when I write this.
You were my favorite mistake,
one I'd be willing to make again and again.
I would go through all the pain again,
if it meant I could just have you.

But you are my cigarette smoke,
filling my lungs.
I ignore the fact that you're slowly killing me
because as time passes without you,
you're all I think about,
and I always go back.

Why do we always go back to the things that **** us?