Though the tides still turned
my heart and soul burned
when I thought that "We:"
*will most likely never be...

Call me naive...
as a girl who pricked her thumb
from a rose that was given by a careless boy...

I do not remember why I know so much...
or maybe I do, I just have chosen to hide them.
oh the glory in not knowing...

I will not lie to you...
because that would be foolish of me
there is a difference between sharing all, and sharing some...

But it is wise to understand...
that we cannot be naive forever
and the more we know seems to hurt us...

Oh how I wish I were still naive...

Erase
erase
erase
The feel of your fingertips,
that
f
o
n
d
l
e
with my soul and leave
little post-it notes
that stick to my cheeks,
creating tears that are
                  burning
                and
          spilling
      down
  like hot lava,
that leave me only worrying over
whether the bed sheets
will catch fire,

before you return.

That droll, little romance
was my first cigarette
an Indonesian clove cigarillo.
A year or two gone now,
but I still remember the sensation,
all the adrenaline and the drugs!

It was that nice, accurate drag,
that perfect ****
of smoke and nicotine.
Love was a potent buzz.
It had laughter.
The high.
It - the passion and ardor -  
...so good.

And the subsequent addiction!
I craved it,
took more than there was.
Smoked it to the ****
so fast
it was over before I realized it.
All that remained:
the fizzle of tobacco embers,
the quick-to-dry sweat
of the uninitiated.

Then the desperation.
I wanted it to work!
I smacked my lips for more of the sweetness.
Searched desperately inside
for only a sickness in my stomach
and poison on my tongue.

I’ve stopped smoking now,
but I will always be
just a little closer
to death
than I should be.

the walls rattle
with my voice
as the walls fell
all around us