Do you really think, that even for one second
I don't know that this smoke will turn my lungs black
and eventually everything inside me black, too?

Do you really think, that at any given point
this perpetual death wasn't a suicide?
That each drag wasn't planned to become my ending?

I know I'm going to die, it's out of my control.
But a pack a day won't keep the doctor away,
it will just leave me in a hole I've dug myself.

I don't care about cancer, or being able to breathe
because I'm eighteen years old and I've spent
so much ******* time wishing I couldn't.

I've spent days and nights thinking, wishing,
that my home would be a deathbed, built just for me.
I was wishing and hoping I would be set free.

But for now, I've got a pulse and air in my lungs,
I'll wake up tomorrow morning with a craving,
for approaching death and nicotine.

Just the thoughts make me miserable,
they call it the terrible two's.
I've lost something completely different
and found something in each of you.

A chemical romance,
an unrequited love.
The blackest of crows,
and a white, untouched dove.

I seek shelter in the curve of your smile,
and comfort in the crook of your neck.
But now those safety nets are dead or gone,
I was given an eternal rain check.

In my dreams I see the two of you,
I know you've seen each other.
I hope your new life is going well,
it's probably best you don't see me smother.

When I close my eyes, I see your smiles,
that's how I'd like to remember.
But if by chance, I was given the chance,
in your arms, I will always surrender.

Everyone hates
a book with a terrible ending.

That disappointment
that settles in on the last page.

My bed is that feeling of disappointment
every morning I wake up on January 1st.

365 pages;
Ending everything with a sorrowful bang.