You taste of a strange mixture- somewhere between my summer mornings and her poisonous cigarettes.
I am used to danger with you, used to our woodland escapades and late night talks, where I would end up to the bone getting you to love me.
But now what we do could get you hurt, could get you away from me.
Forever.
Sweet, sweet sickly sixteen, stripping me bare in a darkened room on a Sunday afternoon.
She tells me you will break my heart again, tells me not to trust you, tells me we fit together in no space except for the one I cannot give you.
Maybe I just long for the time where your lips tasted of blackcurrant juice, and not smoke and vapid lies.
God, your smoke.
Six months, it's been, six months since we began and never do I long to taste that blackcurrant more than now.
It chokes me, you know.
She chokes me without meaning to.
She is thirteen. She can give you more than I can.
She keeps stealing them, Jesus, she takes all I want.
Her voice is like melted chocolate over soft cookies, I don't blame anyone for their choice.

You don't love her anymore.
You chose me.
You chose my useless body and pale lips.
You are doomed to be the death of me.