On my bookshelf sits a cup of cigarettes,
Menthols-
But I’m not a smoker.
Every now and then I pull out my lighter
Take a few drags
And curse at myself for letting go once again-
But I’m not a smoker.
And it’s not an addiction.
It’s simply lost willpower
Letting myself drop the promises I make to myself
To sit and smoke a few
Taste the burnt mint roll across my tongue-
But I’m not a smoker.
I always buy a new pack
When I notice the cup running low,
Never let it empty completely
That would mean I smoke-
But I'm not a smoker.

Tonight, I scrubbed at my body like my skin was trying to forget you.
I pressed soap into every individual pore as hard as I once wrapped myself around you,
Stripped my hair of all oils so that it could no longer feel like how your fingers ran through it
And let the bubbles run down the curves of my body as I turned the water so hot-
My skin glowed red and angry, I wasn’t sure if it was at you, or me.
The steam evaporated into the ceiling as quickly as you did when I drove away.

I stepped out- skin burning and fingers like raisins,
Collarbones red from scrubbing so roughly,
Hair tangled and dripping, soap still running down my back
Drops of water tracing each knot in my spine before dripping into the puddle at my feet.
I wrapped the towel tightly around me and it didn’t feel like you any longer,
It finally felt like I washed you down the drain.
New skin will grow over and I will finally belong to myself again.

There is a hole in our boat,
and though it be still small,
I tread the water lightly around it-
for every careful step i take to patch it back again
only cracks it open farther.

Instead of rowing on the water
we are swimming and fighting to keep afloat-
still trying to save the vessel that is already underwater.
Our feet can't touch the bottom,
but we still look and press to feel grounded against open water.

Paddles snapped in two long ago,
floating farther from where we float.
All i want is to keep rowing-
shore has to be close now.