It's getting late on the clock that times  the relapse into my usual state of slow self-destruction
I wanna burn up like the ash that falls from the cigarettes which tempt me
I dream about choking on the smoke, fantasize about not being able to breathe
And run my fingers over the bottle of ***** hidden in the back of the freezer
Sometimes it's not enough to draw sharp edges over thinly veiled veins
Sometimes the secret to breaking the numbness leads to you sitting heavy on your knees on the ***** bathroom floor
And you flood out the taste of bile with the taste of smoke
More for the rush than the nicotine