Flower petaled bruises,
circle the iris of your eyes,
ivory colored smoke leaving lungs
that wished they didn't breathe.

"It's a slow suicide,"
a cigarette flicked to the side,
the ash like my mind,
falling to the ground.

Scents of smokes and blokes,
blood runs thick on the face
of a thin mind.


I open sixteen eyes.


Awareness gained with each year,
your senses awaking them.


I will remember.

My mind asleep, now awake, parched of knowledge.
I gulp down your image,
your name,
an address,

all in hopes of just that; hoping.

Hoping that you will not remember,
hoping forgiveness is not too far off...

Remember honey,
















I  A M    A L W A Y S   W A T C H I N G.