i’ve heard people explain
if **** and cigarettes are smelled
it’s coming from me, a perfume
i only have to light.
they’re used to my repetitive nature,
my decaying body stuffed inside
a six year old leather jacket.
it's a running gag that I
destroy myself on an
hourly basis. it's funny that I
spent most of high school
clawing at my wrists to get
the fatal flaws out.
I put myself on display
and then get uncomfortable when
I'm asked for a blow by blow
of my most recent suicidal episode.
the gashes on my arms seem to be
an invitation for people to ask me
personal questions whose answers
are only given as whispers under the blanket of night.
i am open and yet how closed am i,
the wanting to be heard conflicting
with wanting to create an air of mystery.
so when you smell smoke just know
i am around, i am waiting
for my name to slip out
when friends bring up
“crazy exes.”