Blades of smoke pass through my hair,
Cutting; oxidising; as the smoke is slowly rising
through the tower of my power as I vainly gasp for air.
Cyanide, it seems, can comfort me a while,
as I'm breathing; screaming and repeating
smoky words into the floor's mute bathroom tile.
But my power is all gone; all wrong.
Once more into my lungs.
I've been quitting about a month now, and fuck is it hard. It shouldn't still be this hard, right? Jesus.