I rely on the feeling of smoke hitting my lungs and letting me know that choking on polluted air can clear my head of dark gray thoughts.

Rid it of its worry for a second and let my blood pulse through my veins without heaving feelings sitting comfortably on my heart.

That thoughts of anxiety are just those of memory, and I haven’t actually deceived the real me.

But when I look in the mirror I wonder why its easier to look away instead of ahead because I have to judge my own book by its cover.

My mind seems like my room covered in cans clothes and ashes of cloves from nights that keep my throat stinging and mind buzzing like I have expendable time to give out and expose.