there is nothing profound about my faux-addiction, the prescriptions mean nothing to me-
they don't even get me all that high

they don't taste good and nobody thinks I'm cool

all I'm doing is emulating people that would rather die then take a long hard look in the mirror

but I'm so **** vain,
self pity is not the reason I do this to myself

I just like to self destruct from time to time

the odd attempt on my life or a few bruises here and there

I just love to die

let me be mortal and ethereal at the same time

when I'm on the verge of a mental break because I 'forgot' to take my medication
the feeling is breathless, ******* angelic

it gets me closer to godliness than anything else

some super cool teenagers gathered together and got high

and played ****** knuckles with a dozen dimes

smoke is one of those smells you can't get out
it clings to walls and bedsheets and burrows deep like a mole into anything it touches
ash on my fingertips as it lingers
lingering
like kind touches that get a little too friendly
lingering
like the bitter aftertaste of sour milk
lingering
like eyes on kitchen knives

lingering
like the sinking feeling that won't go away

IN THE END ALL I HAD WAS AN ADDICTION AND A GROUP OF FRIENDS I COULDN'T TRUST