Here we go, the first shot of alcohol-
it burns my throat.
But not as bad as when you left.

Second shot.
My nerves are set on fire, straight down my spine.
Just like when your finger tips used to graze my skin.

Third shot.
Everything is numb.
It cures my sadness, almost the way your smile used to.

Fourth shot.
Are those tears or are the drinks making me blind, so that I no longer need to see the face that made me weak in the knees?

My fifth shot of liquor,
it’s almost as warm as your breath was…and 

thank god,
it knocks me out.

But the first thought that crashes through my unconscious mind, are your eyes.

How much I loved them when you gave me your sweet promises;
how cold they became when you broke all of them.

"You should really stop that.”
I look over at her, quizzical.


She points to the cigarette dangling from my mouth and gives me the basic line that everyone says to a smoker. 

“It’s not healthy.”

“I could stop smoking at any given moment, yknow.” As I crush the supposed  cancer stick to the dirt, resisting the urge of an eye-roll. 
She’s watching me, obviously waiting for an explanation. 

God, why does she care? No one ever has before.
“It wouldn’t be hard, I mean, I’m not addicted or anything. ”

She laughs and suddenly I’m trying to ignore how good it sounds.
“Isn’t that what all addicts say?”

“I’m serious.” Judging by the look on her face, I know that wasn’t the answer she wanted. So I stopped sugar coating it.

“I just don’t quit because I’d rather **** myself in a way that’s more..socially accepted. People don’t notice as much- they call me a smoker, not suicidal. I like it that way. ”