Sometimes I forget that people feel alive all the time.
When I am swishing the smoke of a black and mild
around my mouth til my tongue gets sore,
making rings with the smoke
that I wish could be circling
around your nose,
people feel alive.
This hollow in my chest is heavier than anything that once filled it.
And so I inhale
and take pleasure in the feeling of being punched in the lungs,
destroying the breath that was once used to say "I love you."
And I take pleasure in destroying my body
by the boy who is fully convinced he loves me because
I told him how my father hit me and how I always feel numb.
I take pleasure in destroying my mind
by sleeping all day and smoking all night,
because this is the only thing that allows me
to take pleasure in destruction.
I take pleasure in the thought
of building myself
all back up
for you.