I’d rather smoke myself out with cigarettes than miss you. Either way my lungs are going to burn so I’d rather be able to control it. You aren’t coming back and it hurts more than a cigarette ever could and ’m going to die anyway, so why not? It’s like you took the part of me that cared. The part that used to tell me “yeah... um... don’t do that??” and all that’s left is the fire burning my insides. Maybe I’m being too cynical, but you don’t know what it’s like to have your heart ripped out your chest 20 minutes after you wake up. Having to hold your mom while she can’t breathe. More often than not I feel empty and I can’t explain why. So yeah, I smoke because I’m trying not to feel. Wouldn’t you?