my lungs are polluted and it's your fault

Smoking doesn't help.

I wish it did.

It also doesn't burn my mouth and my lungs as much as your kiss did,

that is,

until you left.

Now all I can do is drink until your memory 

is as blurry as my vision.

Smoke enough to erase the taste of your cherry lips,

how your breath kept me alive.

Where am I now? Laying on the bathroom floor,

wet with tears that are soaked in thoughts of you.

While you're off on another adventure that I long to be on with you.

Or in some dark forest

'round the corner from your house,

getting high off your mother's pills.

Only to sneak back in a few hours later

after having fucked every friend you have in your neighborhood.

You do it because your body means nothing to you now,

after all the abuse and hate you threw at it,

following suit of all those who did it before you.

You laugh about it, saying that it doesn't matter.

Like a year of being trapped 

by a toxic monster and forced into their bed

doesn't change who you are and how you feel about yourself. 

Now n one is allowed to touch you unless you give them permission.

But once they are granted their freedom,

you become a slave to it once again.

It's as if you wish to punish yourself.

Funny

how 

I'm doing the exact

same 

thing.

But instead of washing away the bruises and blood with the touch of a stranger,

I'm wiping my memory with shots of vodka

and puffs of smoke.

And still, every night,

it's you that I think of when I crawl into bed

in the wee hours of the awakening morning.

It's you who calls me a failure in my dreams,

then turns around and kisses me.

You're not here, beside me

anymore.

I don't know who's more fucked up about it.

Maybe that doesn't matter.

What does matter is that we are so close

and yet we refuse to reach back out to one another.

I get shitfaced,

you get high.

I smoke three packs in a night,

you cut both your arms raw.

In the end,

we're both fucked, aren't we?

Author's Note

it's not about to get any better