You know what?
It may not feel real to you, but
It does to me.  
Lies so often that it’s uprooted my own
Sense of sensibility.  

Gentle, loving touch
I feel it deep shivers down my back
The services you render
I haven’t seen
Since I ran Allroy off the track.

Peck rapidly with your thumbs
Although you can barely read.
But here I stay, I care
I can’t explain the need.

I ******* hate
That I have to quit smoking.
I'm not a quitter.

Smoking fills the gaps in time
Between teenage self-awareness and
And sleep of any kind.  
I crave to feel the smoke inside
Slowly eating at my pride.
I don’t want to live as long as you
And watch the world divide.

It’s what I do when you are mad
It’s what I do to **** the pain
At least when my hands are doing this
I forget your cold disdain.

At this point, it’s pure economics.
I don’t want to stop
I love the power of choice, even if that choice
Is poor.  
But you can’t pull your weight without me,
So smoking, nevermore.

She was hungry, peaked and breathless
“I’m starving”
Words meant to manipulate
I capitulate
“How big is the salami?”
“Roll it up with cream cheese, have you ever
Had it like that?”
I go to the kitchen
And carefully, lovingly roll the soft, silky cheese
Into slices of bologna.  
This was not salami.  
“What the **** is this?  This is not salami.”
“I’m sorry, baby.  I didn’t realize it until...”
“*******, you’re stupid.  Get out of my face.
Now two pieces
Of bologna have gone to waste”.
I look over gently, “I’m sorry”.
She says “shut up, don’t touch me, how could you?” with venom
I was guilty of not knowing my lunch meats
And wasting the precious cheeses within them.