I never told myself to quit; and no one else did either so I never bothered. Taking a lighter, a flame blows out. My shaky hands seem to struggle when trying to reach the tip. The door is open a crack, but blows open from the smoke that consumes the room. I look out the window, finding another scene that I envy. A mother and a daughter getting out of their car with a handful of groceries. Two boys playing catch in their driveway. A boy being taught how to ride his bike by his father. And a bunch of teenagers hysterically laughing at something on one of their phones. It's those little things that make me lock myself in my house—or should I say my stepmother's. Without thinking, I drop my cigarette on the sheets that light my eyes with fire.
I know this is not a poem. I mean I guess it's like a free verse but it's too long. I don't know.