Cigarettes because I can't stand the way coffee reminds me of you and I need to fill the empty space in my mornings.
Coffee because you told me you'd **** me yourself if I let cigarettes do the same.
Coffee only sometimes.
Clementines because they cover up the taste on my teeth and smoke on my fingers.
Clementines because the smell reminds me of Christmas morning, except I don't peel them anymore because you replaced the smell of Christmas morning with rows of tiny lights that lit up like your smile.
You wrapped yourself around my throat for every time you made me feel like I was enough.
You wrapped around me many times I couldn't breathe under the pressure of you loving me so I broke every bulb individually using my own insecurities until you couldn't hold on any longer.
Coffee only on Christmas.
Everyone else's lips because you don't smile for me anymore.
Everyone else because I didn't even bother to replace the bulbs because I was scared of cutting my own hands.
Everyone else's hands around my throat because it reminds me of tiny rows of Christmas lights before they were broken.