i smoke hundreds
and let the ash build up
and pretend i’m a french movie star.
i like the way the smoke feels;
rough, grating, and heavy.
sam says it’s because i like to hurt myself.
sam’s right about most things.
she says i’m more like my dad then i realize
which is a scary thought
but i’ve noticed more similarities
and i just hope i’m not as angry
unless it’s useful
but i know i am.
i snap and spark and set fire
to everything that slightly annoys me
if i’m in a mood.
i’m always in some kind of mood
because if it’s not one thing
it’s another. if it’s not
drugs then it’s food
and if it’s not food then it’s cutting
and if it’s not cutting - well
i think that should suffice.
but i know my dad
and he smokes a lot
but i think i smoke more.
i’m never sober.
he only partakes at night.
i know my dad
but i don’t know myself
so sam may be right
but i’m deaf unless you’re complimenting me.