The embers died and I extinguished every burning flame with my breath
The fire inside me glowed so brightly I could not see,
and the flickering candle-lit lanterns of my eyes brimmed with water
and the roaring blaze inside me died
I inhaled smoke trying to reignite what once thrived
my nicotine lips smelt like ash and my heart was a burnt out cinder
I washed the smell of smoke from my fingertips
the same fingertips that fires used to lick and nibble,
caressing the skin that held a furnace within
Nothing but smoke and ash left inside me now
And blackened lungs from years of fueling the very object that would be my demise
I drowned in a flood created by my own weak self
it washed away my sins, yes, but I was made entirely of sins
and now I am a hollowed out shell of the bonfire I used to be
I was engulfed in a shower of tears that diminished the essence of my being
Now I am nothing but ash and cigarette smoke.
breathe me in with
so i can cling
to your dying cells,
since i cannot
hold your hand
My dear, if you were to cut me open,
to tear away my measly skin,
you would not find
the contents of an ordinary human being.
You would not find veins
or internal organs,
especially not a human heart.
Instead, you would find a battlefield, with freshly made bomb craters
and you would find discarded bullets,
fashioned from spiteful words,
that were perhaps destined for use on my worst enemies
but were instead aimed at myself.
You would find the remains of a daisy field
with the left over petals
looking vaguely like feathers
that fell from doves
or perhaps even angels.
You would find memories of a tiny village
once colourful and lively
but swept away by multiple hurricanes,
that took all happiness and innocence along with them.
Blood would not pour
from my lifeless body,
but dark cigarette smoke would seep from the wounds,
and if you closely investigated,
you would find that the fumes were made up of
microscopic black moths
that had all my lies and promises
carefully written all over their feeble wings
For I am not a human being, but simply a worn out shell of one.
Polish off your vodka
Where are my friends?
Its so hot in here
Three more shots
Makeout with a random guy
Ooo, there's wine
Throwing up in the sink
Friend is on the toilet peeing for the sixth time in the past hour
Compliment me or I'll complain
Grind on what appears to be a hot guy
Climb to the roof
There's a couch
He's too drunk to get hard
What are fingers for?
Someone comes up
Your caught in the act
He wants to take you home
You don't want to go home
Meet his friends
Take better shower
Go to class
Wait until next weekend.
The light from your cigarette
Illuminated the path
I knew it would burn out
But I wanted it to last
Walking with you made everything better
You made my feet feel like a bus
Each step was a stop; getting lighter
You made my body feel a rush
You told me that
The present is too dreamy
Unlike the past
Because it is linked with no memory
And I told you that
Although my shell is straight
My shadow is crumbling
And I am held down by its weight
And so we walked on
While you shared your wisdom
And I felt free
Unleashed from my prison
Your thoughts were surreal
I wanted to plant seeds in your skull
Because your mind was so bright
That the flowers would grow
Our steps became synchronized
Together as we walked
And our minds were open
Our secrets unlocked
Then the light from your cigarette
Burned out at last
But the luminosity of your mind
Illuminated the path
the street is empty: wednesday 215pm
everyone is at school or at work
This is when I thrive.
No worrying what each car is thinking of me as they drive by
the urge to check the backs of my shoes in case I've stepped in something is diminished.
"Whatismyhairdoingarethesepantstootight? These pants are too tight.
Hide your cigarette so they won't see. Am i walking in a straight line?
Should i be on this side of the road or the other
There's no sidewalk I don't know.
Someone I know
Someone I fucked
Will inevitably drive by
'That's her isn't it? Why is she walking by herself in the cold?
She doesn't have a car? Pathetic. She can afford to buy
cigarettes at ten bucks a pack? Irresponsible.'"
Head held high walking down an empty street
I feel the heat still radiating from newly-parked cars
Small and fleeting moments of relief
Akin to making eye contact with an attractive stranger on the street
Making whatever this is
I stood, smoke twirling around my fingers,
Cheeks tingling from the cold,
Eyes turned upward, toward the magnificent and bold.
Ice was melting off the branches,
Dripping onto my face, shoulders, hands.
The trees were crying, and time slipped away like sand.
The lamp post glowed and my cigarette burned,
The sound of cracking ice and water droplets echoed in my ears,
I stood there listening as I was baptized in cold tears.
I hadn't cried in what seemed like ages,
And tonight I believed the trees were weeping for me.
Thawing from their icy burden, it felt like an apology.
Sorry that you like how the cold makes you feel numb.
Sorry your sleep is haunted by things that were and have ended.
Sorry you are at war with your heart which you left undefended.
I silently nodded, thankful for their sympathy,
Flicking my cigarette I walked away from the dripping sorrow,
Hopefully like the ice on those branches, my worries will be gone tomorrow.
I find it funny that the girl who brought us together
was the one who taught me how to smoke.
It’s funny because now, whenever I smell cigarette smoke
my mind strays to thoughts of you.
My mind wanders back to the times
when we would share a cigarette together,
when the only thing I could be conscious of was how your lips
had just touched this very same filter 10-seconds ago,
and how nice it must feel to have you
inhale all the good parts in
and exhale the bad parts out.
I concentrate on how delicately you balance
the cigarette between your lips,
how knowingly you
grasp it between your fingers,
how you hold it like
it means something,
and how much I want to be held by you.
My eyes un-focus
and all I can visualize is the
way the smell would stay on your fingers
as you caressed my face,
leaving untraceable fingerprints on
the edge of my bottom lip.
All I can think of is how the taste of the tobacco
would still be present on your lips as you kiss me softly,
with just enough nicotine staining them to give me a slight head rush.
I know you enough to know that cigarettes are your biggest vice.
It’s the thing that brings you comfort in times of stress,
the one thing you’ve tried to quit, but always go back to.
We used to do this trick where I inhale the cigarette smoke
and exhale it into your receiving mouth;
our lips touching, closing off everything else but each other.
You’d exhale the excess and smile at me and I couldn’t help but smile back.
You see, it may have not been obvious but I wanted to be your cigarette.
I will always want to be your cigarette.
I want to be something you always crave,
something you go out of your way to posses,
something you keep close by at all times because you’re afraid to lose it,
something that you’re wary to give out and share
because you’re scared you’ll run out of enough of it for yourself.
And I know that they say that each cigarette
you smoke takes a day off your life,
but when we’re smoking together,
and we inhale the same amount,
and smoke the same number of cigarettes,
it’s almost as if we’re creating a bulletproof plan
where we lessen our days here so we never have to live without the other.
And I also know that cigarettes ignite then crumble to ashes,
and I’m aware that they have their inevitable end.
But maybe, you’ll have enough of my nicotine personality stained on your lips
to get you through the empty pack,
enough creativity to not let me burn out to the filter,
and enough passion to not let me disappear through the cracks
but let me linger
on your clothes,
on your fingers,
in the air,
like cigarette smoke.
I read a poster today,
"Having a healthy mind
Is just as important as having
A healthy body"
I thought about my brain and
The way it works, how I
Nervously pinch myself when I'm
Crying, or how I can't help but
Hate the way I look
The way talking to boys
Is so much easier than talking to
Girls, and what it means
Taking a cigarette to my thigh
Just to see what it feels like, or
Laying in bed, counting how many
Times I can punch my cheek bone
Before it bruises just to
Cover it up the next day with make-up
All this scares me because
I have control over my body
Eating, exercise, tangible things
But my mind,
I don't know how to
And it's getting worse
Budweiser cans lay on the floor like empty mortar rounds,
the smell of Jack Daniels as potent as battlefield blood.
Weekend wars where we fight ourselves for pleasure.
Waging conquest on the banal.
Losing limbs and liver for a life less ordinary.
The air in my apartment is stale like cigarette butts,
buried in mass graves in an ashtray over full.
Weekend warriors where we battle for a new fix.
Waging conquest on the week day.
Losing steady vision for a life less ordinary.