2 years ago we were in love. Never parting from the other.

1 year ago we were in trouble.
Never wanting of the other.

6 months ago we were in love-
or so I dumbly thought.

Today I'm rather lonesome, wondering where you are.

I never understood how both
a self-obsessed egomaniac
and a hopeless romantic
could inhabit one body;
perhaps it is the reason
I have spent so much time
in front of the mirror, hating myself.

Should I pick up the broken pieces,
or pretend they're not even there?
Right about now I'm dying for a cigarette.
Maybe I can smoke out all the words unsaid from my putrid lungs.
There's a sick satisfaction, knowing no one can save you.
A friend told me that every fifteen cigarettes causes a mutation.

Good.

Maybe I can smoke myself into a different person who's okay without you.