"Set me on fire, please."
You knew
That burning was my least desired death
But I'd much rather have an unpreferred way of death
Than an unpreferred way of life.

I CAN'T WRITE ABOUT YOU
BECAUSE YOU HAVEN'T
BROKEN MY HEART YET
AND THE ONLY INK I USE
IS MY OWN BLOOD

It's 11.23 am
And I've nothing left to say
I think I'll allow some sleep tonight
So I don't have to feel this way

I hated cigarettes
With a childhood filled with suffocating smoke
My anticipation for them was unlikely
But every **** smoke you had sitting next to me
You fed me your words and stories
A breathtaking cascade of scattered phrases and ideas and dreams
I was all so ravenous to hear
Your smoke swirled, not suffocated
I'd watch it snake throughout the air
As it pushed your memories of people and places to come to life in my mind
Every wisp of smoke pulled me closer to you
Smokes killed
But darling your words gave me more life than anything

I've never hated an object more than when I found that little red notebook of hers.

My heart sank to depths no ocean could reach when I saw how stained with life her words were, despite her claims of hollowness and a dead soul.

Her words mocked me. They were still alive.
She wasn't.