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Cat Fiske Jun 2018
I used to buy over priced Cigarettes,
To mask my pain and regrets.
I'd pack them on the dashboard of my car,
Like a man who beats a women until his hands scar.
I'd open my pack,
before my withdrawals would attack.
Rip off the plastic and remove the foil,
Carefully like you'd place a crown on someone royal,
Pull out the first cigarette by the filtered tip,
I made sure not to forget to flip,
As I put the cigarette back,
I pull out another by the filter from my pack.
NA Jan 2018
I’m smoking the butts of your cigarettes;
The ones you left in the ash tray during our last conversation.

I’m smoking the butts of your cigarettes;
Just to be where your lips have been.

I’m only doing this all because I think that I need it;
It’s as close as I can get to you.
Hayley Rena Dec 2017
I often wish I was the cigarette you used
on cold nights to calm you down
and forget the pain you had.
Lies sometimes come in nicotine laced toxic.
I wonder if you see how every lie you tell
is you committing suicide
right in front of me;
killing everything I see in you.
Craving the voice that suffocates me,
these nicotine laced lies.
You being addicted to drugs,
and I to you.
Addicted to the taste your words leave in my mouth.
There is supposed to be a difference between love and nicotine.
I often wish I was that cigarette.
Only then would you be letting me in.
So breathe me.
Written// Oct. 18, 2017 11:03am
Desire rod Aug 2016
Black sheets
cold feet
Craving coffee beans
Dark with no sugar or cream
To slowly slip and sip away
A cigarette to light my insides
Laying here motionless and Mindless
Hearing sad songs
Some how it's
Helping me
Move
On
When trying to find an escape or something to drown into  pour me like a cup of tea and drink me in my sleep
Desire rod Aug 2016
Used to smoke these lungs dry
Burned the flesh on my wrist
The scar remains the same
Used to drink until I would black out
Danced a fool and almost broke my tooth
Now that's the past
I've been black for way to long
Living for a new
purpose
Joshua Haines Jul 2016
Tie your powder blue checkered sheets,
and dangle them out of your
splintered window frame.

Wire bodies scrambling down,
you and your sister, tan and loud,
bringing ultra-light cigs and
burner flip-phones,
promising *** without
the feeling of being alone.

This is for the chips on your polish,
much like you: red and drawn
by a shaky Saturday night,
where I'm your friend,
unsure and twenty-two,
driving through muddy water
like a submarine submerged in time.

The stereo shouts out Minor Threat,
neon and done, are we, the naked,
parked outside the park
where you wrecked your bike,
we threw mixtapes off the bridge,
where we had fun.

I can still hear our theme song
beyond the headlights
beyond the moans.
Stunned nostalgia
upon the tree bark,
filtering wind we've
released.
Andrew T May 2016
Every morning I went
to the coffee shop across the street
from my house,
because I didn’t work.

For every resume I typed out,
I wrote a poem,
in order to keep me from
sending you a text marked with a white flag.

A skull was concealed in the flag,
as a watermark. The sun made
love to a cluster of clouds,
while I rolled a cigarette using strands of your brown hair.

I opened my wallet
and took out a photograph
of me and you from the booth
that one night when you made a fire out of caskets.

Your face had been glowing with warmth,
as if you had drained all the light out of the sun,
and had taken a shower in its yellow glow.
Your eyes were bright with a hopeful future.

Then you grew your hair longer,
and pulled it over your eyes,
like twin pirate eye-patches.
But you’d said you weren’t blind, just indifferent.

Today I wrote another poem on a countertop,
in the coffee shop,
and bandaged the wounds you gave me
when you told me you never cared about me.

One of the baristas wearing a brown apron
and a blue baseball cap, gave me poems
from James Tate. And as I read
“The Lost Pilot” it started to drizzle from the ceiling.

I wasn’t sure if it was rain pouring on my head,
and on my poems, or if it were melted ice-cream,
rich and thick in its texture,
Our first date we stole vanilla ice-cream from a Giant.

You stuffed it in your golden purse,
and ran through the doors, as a fat security guard
chased after you. Then, you hopped
into my blue Volkswagen and we sped off.

I was perfectly fine with being the getaway driver,
you dipped a bent spoon
into the plastic container and scooped out
the ice-cream. You ate it hungrily.

And after I took a bite,
we went to the park and swung on the swings,
coasting up and down in the air,
vanilla stained on the front of our black shirts.

Back at the coffee shop, I played the keyboard
in the bathroom because I was shy,
shy of you finding out,
because you love piano melodies.

And I guessed I wanted to play
for myself for a change. I played
“My Cherri Amour,” and drank gin
from a flask, until every key looked like a playing card.

After I played the song,
I left the coffee shop
,went home, and painted our last conversation,
using words from a newspaper.

“It’s over.”
“You were never right for me.”
“You’re not mature enough for a relationship.”
“I never want to see your face at Peets.”

Peets was the coffee shop we would always go to,
every morning, rain or shine,
rested or exhausted, and
I remember you would read my poems.

You read my poems as if they were
Daphne Loves Derby song-lyrics. Last night
you texted me that my poems
sounded like rushed and convoluted emails.

After that I blocked you on everything,
from social media to your number.
I hoped we would grow weak with joy,
and grey with age.

Words, whether from your lips,
or a text shattered the trust
I gave you, as if it were
my social security code.

In front of the bathroom mirror,
I took a pink eraser and rubbed it
against my foreheard,
to remove the wrinkles.

Each wrinkle represented a time
when you had failed me, or
when I had failed you. Our failures
were weights that I had balanced in my memory.

Kaufman would be pleased
of my progress. I wrote a sculpture
with glass and tears
at my desk, alone in my clean, well-lighted room.  

And then I took the sculpture,
and buried it
in my backyard, right next to the grave
of my old and weak self.

I smoked a cigarette using
sad memories as rolling papers.
As the paper burned slowly, I
let the smoke fill my heart.

Because my lungs were tired,
tired from breathing, tired from
living for you. Because you
are not the only thing that matters anymore.
Cat Fiske Mar 2016
Almost jumped off that bridge,
sadly I wish I did.

instead I found some relief in *** cigs,
and used to help me forget,

I held my breath to calm down,
until tomorrow came around.
been mylife the last 2 months.
Sin
I sinned today...
The slow draw swept me away.
I tasted such sweet nothing.
Warm smoke, finished with that sting.
It started with a harmless light,
The toxic chemicals wrapped in white.
I truly thought I was done,
It was four months, since I had one.
I thought I could escape its hold,
Yet I find myself still clutching death in the cold.
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