I think that I was a pack of cardboard cigarettes
Hidden under your pillow
Or in  your worn down guitar case
You looked to me when your throat was closing up
When your head was pounding
And that guitar was strumming itself because it missed you as much as I did
You looked to me when it was raining
And lit me up just to watch me burn
Let me dangle in your mouth
And between your fingers
Before flicking me to the floor and putting me out
I think
I was a pack of robins egg blue
Cardboard cigarettes
And as soon as I was out
You would go get another pack
For 5.45 at the gas station
I am sitting in pieces where you left me
I know I killed you
I know I suffocated you
But thats the only thing I know how to do
Thats what I was made for
It's taken me a long time to figure it out
But I was made to destroy
And I don't regret making you my victim
Because you held me at four am and snuck away to be with me
And you promised me you enjoyed it
And you would love dying a death by something so beautiful
But I watched you in pieces
Grab another pack
Light it up
And let it dangle in your mouth
I think I was always just a pack of cardboard cigarettes

If you haven't seen her,
I feel sorry for you.
She chased the world on it's tail
And perfected the art of taking what wasn't hers.
She let cigarettes dangle from her mouth
And wrapped heartstrings loosely around her fingers.
She slipped in and out of consciousness between sips of *****
And did what she could to **** herself in the softest way possible.
She had blonde hair that fell in chunks past her face
Down her shoulders like a waterfall
And blue eyes that dulled to a soft gray in the winter
Her poison wasn't the alcohol she drank like water
Or how she smoked like it was good for her
Her poison was how easily she made people fall in love
Like tearing the wings off of a butterfly
Watching tears roll down flushed cheeks
No mercy or regret
If you haven't seen her,
I feel sorry for you
Because I see her
When she stumbles at two AM
Black boots and a torn skirt
Holes in her tights
God,
I've seen her.
And I'd let her break my heart any day.

This is written sobriety
This is that unfamiliar feeling of being in control of your hands
Behind your own eyelids
A bottle of ***** far out of reach
So you have no choice but to trace your fingers over the carved pencil marks
Written when your hands shook so uncomfortably
And your eyes were lazy and reddened with drugs
There was no one behind you to touch your shoulder
And rip the wings off of your back
The secrets you spilled into the whiskey are shut tight
Placed out of reach for the children that crawl around on their hands and knees
Oh, how you resemble them.
These words you etched into your thigh
With a pen and the burning sensation of being stared down
Cold sweat drips onto the paper
These words you etched into the wall next to the numbers
Counting down the days in this enclosed space that is your own mind
You are too lazy for an escape
But too productive to do nothing
So you write about how much you miss her
You write about holding her and kissing her
You write about her neck and her curves
And how it felt to touch her
You write about being sober and how awful it feels to be in control
How there is no God
Because he would go insane with all of this control
You write about her body
And her mind
Her intellectual ways and how she traced the outline of your hand so formally.
You write about her but you have to erase the word "alcohol" and replace it with the name of a woman you have never met
And it's so easy to see why love and alcohol get mixed up so quickly
They are the exact same
This is written sobriety.
When your throat doesn't burn but you can't sleep at night anyway
Because there's no one next to you and the one thing you depended on
The constant in your life
Has vanished in a fit of anger against the wall
Dont you see
This is written sobriety.

Think of me before you plunge into the ocean
Let me be the reason you come back up for air
I'm not one for cheap metaphors
But if you wrote them, holding a pen without ink,
I would read every one with the traces of my fingers.

You need to be pretty.
You need to be pretty and you need to be quiet.
You need to be pretty and you need to be quiet and you need to give everything to a man because he deserves it for putting a roof over your head.
You need to be pretty.
You need to be pretty and you need to be quiet
You need to be pretty and you need to be quiet and you need to be appreciative of a man because he provides you with the life you were meant to live.
Pretty
Quiet
Appreciative.
Stay in your place.
Don't talk back
Don't flinch when he hits you
Don't flinch when he touches you
Don't flinch when he yells at you.
Pretty
Quiet
Appreciative.
Because you were born into the 21st century version of being sold off like a slave. Pretty
Quiet
Appreciative
None of this is optional.
You need to be (whoever you want) and you need to be (as loud as you want) and you need to (appreciate yourself)
None of this is optional

but im only human
I only miss you on Sundays when the sun peaks through the blinds and the tea tastes like regret and unhappiness.
So I spit it out and make a new batch.
but im only human
I only miss you on Mondays when the dusk meets the dawn and I have to throw the pages of something I loved away.
but im only human
I only miss you on Tuesdays when the scent of you is traceable on my clothes and no matter how hard I scrub its still *there
but im only human
I only miss you on Wednesdays when its the middle of the week and the clouds hide the sun like a punishment and I remember how much you love the rain.
but im only human
I only miss you on Thursdays when I know you would've been home by now, and I would make some ****** dish of food that neither of us would eat but you would say it's "delicious anyway."
but im only human
I only miss you on Fridays when you would put on a movie we've seen seventeen times and absentmindedly rub my hand over with your thumb and I wish you would've rubbed it raw.
but im only human
I only miss you on Saturdays when the cemetery is closed and I have to drive past it on my way to the store because we're out of milk and you're not there to buy it anymore.
*but im only human

I never know what I'm going to say when I start to write.
I know what I'm feeling.
A mixture between wanting to be without you
But never wanting to be alone.
I know the words,
The vowels that I learned in Kindergarten.
I even remember the song.
We're pulling in opposite directions
Looking for the same thing
I never know what I'm going to say when I start to write.
But it's usually about you.