I took up smoking to replace one bad habit for another
(and a little bit for a taste of that head rush you used to give me).
I watch as my heart walks around downtown, outside of me;
and in my dreams, I’m pulling out my teeth for you.
It’s all these ******* mind games and those girls with bigger chests.
Can you recall one freckle off my sunburnt face?
The only thing I could ever leave with you were those bruises on your neck.
But even they began to fade the moment my mouth left your skin.

I left my broken bones at the foot of your bed.
I had planted my roots in your shoes, but I didn’t know where to grow after you left them in the doorway.
How can you expect me to live in the shell of something that once made a sunrise look dull?
And what do you think of when you see my last name on a street sign?