Roughly six-hundred-and-two packs of cancer sticks later,
I don't feel as sick as therapists have said I am to be.
That means twelve-thousand-and-fifty-three cigarettes have been consumed
in the past three years by me,
in which I'm surprised my lungs haven't had to be exhumed from my barreled chest.
I'm surprised I haven't died,
or contracted a malignant growth in my throat,
or excessive tar in these lungs that hold me up,
or haven't choked on the smell,
or haven't wrecked a car while dropping a smoke into my lap.
Now all of my cigarette burns are marks from the slight curve
of smiles I've found in sad people spending their valuable seconds on letting smoke settle in.
I've been using stupid cancer sticks to curb this constant anxiety I brought upon myself.
In prison they use cigarettes as currency, I always say I want to be wealthy with passing away faster,
it makes me feel oddly sentimental knowing I'll be closer
to friends I once hid away with and shared moments
over cigarettes.
But back to my point,
way back then, when I met you.
I didn't want to smell like smoke,
I didn't want you to hate it on me.
I didn't need to curb the anxiety.
I didn't want to taste like lung cancer.
I didn't want to remind you of what you hate.
It's late notice, but you were my nicotine sprinkled with cyanide, arsenic
(rat poison), butane, ammonia, menthanol, carbon monoxide, and paint,
but you weren't cancerous, contrary of what you always say.
I was the carcinogen that would've made you die if I had stayed.
You don't know I wanted to, though,
I wanted you addicted, but I'm a cigarette with remorse;
we both wanted more,
and I miss you like eight hours away from the seven minutes I take off of my day.
I didn't want to **** you, though you may be scarred,
I wanted you to be alive and generally unharmed.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
I've rubbed my skin raw,
To diminish all the stains
Your kisses used to leave
Me in awe
Now all I want is for them to be gone
I was a frivolous pawn
You'd use as you'd go
You'd play me when the time was right
It was only a game,
Black or white
Then one day you made a mistake
You played a blunder
You lost your game,
I stole your thunder
You were a catalyst of sorts
Always playing the pawns
Feelings never contort
But I've won this round
The queen is to be crowned
Now this time
You'll be kissing my ground
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
But all I have are habits
Lost-in-love with sadness
It's become my favorite talent
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 6:36 PM UTC
I stop singing along when I remember it was your favorite song.
How long until my body accepts that you're gone.
because you are missing out on a lot
Or maybe I'm not okay being forgotten.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
White noise, stagnent air
Isolation, constant despair
Guilt-ridden neglect; painful to recollect
I cry out in pain, quickly circling the drain
My mind; desolate fearful
Dancing with the devil, far from cheerful
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 10:14 PM UTC
The most **** thing about a guy has nothing to do with his clothes, hair or eye colour.
It's in the way he looks at you with longing, when you finally find out he wants you just as badly as you want him.
When he pulls you so close to him that there is literally no space between you, because he can't stand the thought of there being any.
When he kisses you, so that it feels as if he is stealing the air from your lungs, and for those few seconds you forget what air even is.
When all thoughts go out the window and its just him, with you,in the most simple way possible.
Now that is the definition of ****
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC