i watch the smoke curl out from under
my painted lips, and am acutely aware of the
caked lipstick smeared across them,
like an oil painting gone wrong.
getting high wasn’t something girls like me ever did;
drugs just felt too artificial, too ******,
too… irresponsible, for someone who wanted to be the best
in life.

but it seems to be the only thing that rinses away what
i still haven’t managed to forget;
like how you’d delicately caress my lower lip with your teeth.
or how when you’d smile,  the fine lines around your tired eyes
would wrinkle upwards, you’re lips twisting into that stupid,
jagged grin that made me giggle.

i forget the first night we ever spent together,
and how ******* terrified i was at how i was trusting someone
so completely after just four weeks.
and when i rolled over, you were there, smiling –
calm, collected, sleepy –
and whispered across the pillow, “good morning, beautiful.”

(that’s when i fell in love with you.)

i sort of forget how you held your face in your hands,
mumbling how tired you were, and how i would never make it out of
this ******* state.
i sort of forget the annoyance flickering across your face,
how video games became more important than cooking dinner
together,
and how i cried alone in my bathtub,
wishing that i was clutching an empty bottle of pills.

i brush sugar on top of my oil painting lips,
demanding you to kiss me and still tell me that i’m bitter.

i sort of forget how you cried, but i was too
numb to care.
i sort of forget how you told me that you loved me,
but not enough to stay.