Sometimes I forget that people feel alive all the time. When I am swishing the smoke of a black and mild around my mouth til my tongue gets sore, making rings with the smoke that I wish could be circling around your nose, people feel alive. This hollow in my chest is heavier than anything that once filled it. And so I inhale and take pleasure in the feeling of being punched in the lungs, destroying the breath that was once used to say "I love you." And I take pleasure in destroying my body by the boy who is fully convinced he loves me because I told him how my father hit me and how I always feel numb. I take pleasure in destroying my mind by sleeping all day and smoking all night, because this is the only thing that allows me to take pleasure in destruction. I take pleasure in the thought of building myself all back up for you.