I became dependent on it and cut over just about everything and everyone. I began to substitue cutting for smoking. I smoked over everything and everyone. I used it to escape my problems and just sleep instead.

Swaying and moving and swaying some more.
I moved my way across the dance floor.
This must be heaven I thought to myself, for no one is judging
it's like I'm all by myself.
So I jump and I sway no matter which way
and everyone claps and smiles as I dance away the day.
But even when dancing forevers to long.
So I sit down and rest and hum a soft song.
The surrounders join in and sing with me too
about sunshine and summer time and not being blue.
But even though meant well and even though sweet
this nice little sentiment still felt so bleak.
So I screamed and ran trying to be free
but I couldn't get out so i climbed up a tree.
I feel from the tree onto my hard wood floor
realizing it was a dream and I could dance some more.

naIve
            Longing
           fOr something
    not eVen a lot
      just Enough
   i founD you
  or did You find me
  three wOrds i could never
              Utter again because you              
                                      kept them.

Dust is my only memory.
White is the only color I see.
Emptiness is my only pulse.
Solitude is my only shelter.
In between all this chaos of nothingness lies my brain in a box of cigarettes.
Smoke becoming my only lover.
Caressing me with its ashes, while hypnotizing me with its nicotine.

I am looking for my mind and its nowhere to be found in this asylum
of heartless consumerism.
I am smoking my hopeless life away, with each cigarette.
Slowly burning my insides with its fatal dose of love.
Whispering: "ashes its all there is left after death, my darling."

"Girls shouldn't smoke"
I'm sorry sir, say that again?
Tell that to the 15 year old hispanic girl who sold her virtue under the guidance of the traffic lights to pay off her mother's cancer bills.
Tell that to the wife of a man who
beat
beat
beats her, because some nights she refuses to kneel at his supposed genital altar and confess her sins.
Tell that to the girl who has spent 6 months carving her home address into her forearms,  hoping that her Mum would smell the rust and come and rescue her.
Tell that to the girl who was stolenshackleddruggedsold under the consent of her father who used her body as a paycheck to settle his blackjack debt.
To the lonely girl. The ugly girl. The fat girl. The anorexic girl.  The bulimic girl.  The girl.
"Girls shouldn't smoke."
Tell that to the women who find their prayers in the daily grace that is, nicotine.
Just like men do.