One day you’ll get used to the blood in your lungs.

Coughing on the overflow like its nothing, dripping
down your chin like the juice from ripe fruits of summer.

I wish you wouldn't look me in the eye, or maybe I just wish
you’d see a cry for help rather than the empty, dead, grey that’s left.

Come closer, kiss me, I don’t mind.
I prefer the taste of copper over
coffee and cigarettes any day.

- S.G.