it was one of the most simplest of pleasures, lying in bed with a cigarette pressed between my teeth. sad girls smoke more, or so they say. the ashy menthol lingering on my lips tastes like you and the burn marks on my skin feels like how you used to tell me you loved me only when you made me cry. that summer is over and i am still picking up teeth that you knocked out of my mouth when you tried to pull me apart. love is a subjective thing, but how can you love something that is hurting you the most? you are the tar in my lungs.