I counted every single cigarette that she put out,
without smoking,
1. I thought of her favorite shade of lipstick,
how she used it to write "*******"
on the bathroom mirror.
2. I thought of safety pins,
and the ones she chained around her neck
as a reminder,
that she didn't want to remember anymore.
3. I thought of music,
how she listened to songs on repeat,
just so she wouldn't forget that they were once her favorite,
that they might still be her favorite.
4. I thought of her hoodie,
the smell of smoke stayed with it,
and she hated it.
5. I thought of the ways she wrote out her pain,
always more poetic than it really felt,
always sweeter than it seemed.
6. I thought of every dinner that she hadn't eaten in months,
every breakfast sent down the drain,
and all those midnight snacks she cried over having.
7. I thought of her funeral,
it hasn't happened yet but she says it will be beautiful,
she's planned it herself,
she isn't planning on going to it.
8. I thought of all the notes she has written to me,
signed each one with a different name,
she wants to be someone else but doesn't know who.
9. I thought of her dainty hands,
holding her black lighter,
flicking it on and off,
rhythmic, soothing almost,
but that wasn't really her,
not rhythmic or soothing.
10. This was the last one she lit,
a girl made of smoke,
but without the smoke anymore,
now she's just a girl,
and there's nothing left to count.