i stole a cigarette.
no, this isn't a metaphor.

there's just times where I feel
like I deserve to be what falls in the ash tray.

I don't know why I keep trying to harm myself,
If things are going okay...

It's like, I'm so used to the torture and pain,
I don't ever want it to go away.

No wonder I had clung to my razor blades
No wonder I had clung to the trauma
No wonder I developed depression
and look at me now, stealing cigarettes.

Desperately trying to find a way to destroy myself
Fill my lungs with smoke
A stench that is more than just stuck on clothes.

It's the past, coming back to life
inhale
inhale
inhale more
cough

You want to smother these thoughts
Lose them in this smoke and fog

But no, there's no escape
Not even when the cigarette is done

The scars still string your skin
The pain woven deep into your veins
The ****** scabs you keep picking at

It's a coping mechanism
Or a way to slowly die

Is it that... I need to feel something, always?
Is it that... I have fallen in love with Death?

The couple of times, where he teasingly came
close to...
give me a fatal kiss.

Is this what I lust over?
Is this... what I want to feel?
...

In any case... this cigarette is still lit up.
Drifting me more out of myself.

And I disappear like the smoke in the wind.