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Mar 2015
Blades of smoke pass through my hair,
Cutting; oxidising; as the smoke is slowly rising
through the tower of my power as I vainly gasp for air.

Cyanide, it seems, can comfort me a while,
as I'm breathing; screaming and repeating
smoky words into the floor's mute bathroom tile.

But my power is all gone; all wrong.
Oxidise: Cyanide.
Once more into my lungs.
I've been quitting about a month now, and **** is it hard. It shouldn't still be this hard, right? Jesus.
Steele
Written by
Steele  United States
(United States)   
15.6k
   21, Caitlin, WickedHope and ---
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