Pop Rocks and Cigarettes

The ash fallen purifies all unkempt.

You tasted like pop rocks and cigarettes, your two favorite things. We were the life of the party: the raves, the orgies, the bangers kids would talk about twenty years from now when their lives were boring and miserable, repeated patterns of the same fabric. We would never have that, oh god no, please; I never want us to live in a world surrounded by repetition, coffee, or a 9-5 job, so we’ll stay here, doing drugs, tongue f*****g each other, and having the best sex we can. When we get older, maybe, just maybe, we’ll grow up, but honestly, I don’t want to, I want to stay here, in this ball, so high off molly that I can only focus on your breath, cigarettes and pop rocks, pop rocks and cigarettes. Your two favorite things, yes, but I’m your favorite, right? You want me more than you want your nicotine buzz, more than you want to feel the pop rocks sit under your tongue, even more than you want that constant loneliness and pain to stop. I can fill that for you, remind of you times when it was gone, and the drugs help too, because they fill up all the parts of me that aren’t there, or just don’t want to be. One day I want to see your eyes as red as the rave lights, fluorescent and glowing, shining down upon me with all of the words, ideas, and emotions you don’t know how to share, or you simply don’t want to share. Until then, I’ll sit here with you, eyes white, glazed over, burnt out from all of the drugs and the pain that remind me of how dead you really are, how sad you really are when you dance at the parties, how crushed you feel after you realize those rave lights can never illuminate your heart, vacant and empty, sizzling like pop rocks, burning like a cigarette.