In the boudoir of satan's play pen
Chain-smoking her pretty lies
You learn the art
In your veins
In your heart
You can not refrain, dancing with sins
Touching her slowly
Oh the pain, you can not contain
Out of reach, you weep
This is your defeat
A tick and a click are rhyming up in a lame flame,
A thick stick of dry herb is the flame's aim,
That starts to burn and blatter in a burring pain,
Framed by a grey fog, hiding its disdain.
The mere pain of life urges this hateful act,
Looking for more pain pack by pack,
Claiming if there's no stop, I want more of that,
Waiting and feeling and waiting and feeling,
The sniff-by-sniff approaching Death.
First year of smoking.
I burn my soul wrapped in a paper
So you could see that I’m burning
No one believes you’re on fire
Unless he sees the smoke
It’s where we smoked our cigarettes
because we were already living for way too long
but we never jumped of the roof
we only let the smoke
burn our lungs from inside out
and wanted death to come closer slowly.
two fallen angels on a rooftop
I wish I felt this good sober...
I wake up every morning feeling like the weight of the world is sitting on my chest.
I have a heavy heart, filled with regret and a heavy head constantly filled with what ifs and self doubt.
I roll over to text you back but see no reply.
I can't bring myself get out of bed again.
I sit up and put my head between my knees and just breathe.
I sit there and regret all the the stupid things I said and did the night before.
Wondering when things started to get this bad.
I'm starting to shut everyone out again.
I haven't been sober in awhile.
I can’t tell if the drugs make me happy or sad.
I just know they make me feel numb.
And I know the drugs, they make me overeat.
Which makes me feel like **** because I already hate my body.
I don’t know why I continue to do this.
Why i continue to act like I’m not hurt.
I try to drown it out and mask the feelings
In liquor, THC, and with men who see me as nothing.
I am so lost
I don't know who I am
I don’t want you to hurt me again
I’m so tired of being me
last night your kisses
made the moon brighter
we'd smoked before
but inhaling you
made me higher.
i went back to my empty apartment
dreamed of you real sweet
but i know better
than to text you
and wish you the
most decent day
i wanna believe in the concept
"ask and it is given"
but i know better
than to expect you to stay
selfless until I want you to be
always thinking of me
until you realize you can be selfish by slowly killing yourself
"nicotine is nicotine is nicotine" :
words from my own mother
holding me to a standard she won't follow.
i miss smoking,
but i think i miss you more.
See that blood on your lip
It's not from a fight
It from a fight you
Are going to have
You mostly not win
If you keep on freaking smoking
That blood is from your damaged longs
in ninth grade i came to school
with cigarette smoke
embedded in my clothes
i wanted so badly for
to ask why i smelled like
a cancer ward.
i would write poetry
about how much i hated myself
thinking it would mean
anything to anybody
all the sharp parts of
my body condensed
into shot glasses
overflowing and draining at the same time
the chipped parts leaking *****
onto my bedroom floor
that i'm afraid
my mom will smell
when i was a preteen
i promised myself,
a pact only i can legitimize,
that if i wasn't happy by 18
i would **** myself.
i am a breath away from that
within arm's reach of the
edge of something--
whether it's a
swimming pool's side
or a cliff's face
is up to me i guess.
here's the thing no one
told me about life:
nobody notices your pain
no matter how much you want
and if they do
they do it wrong.
you won't be able to find
the words in the
moment they ask.
you'll freeze up
and your only language will be
and a faint smell of *****.
it will seem romantic at the time
but it is really, really not.
all it does is hurt and hurt
and hurt and hurt.
you will be scared when
she notices the blood
on your thighs/hands/heart
and the black in your
and you will cry. it will hurt.
so does everything else.
and if there's
anything i've learned
by now, at the
precipice of 18,
the blood and *****,
it all comes out in the wash.