I am a tired girl. Tired of the same old memories coming back to haunt me and I swear that it's my fucking fault. You were gone before I could spill the air out of my lungs, exhaling in a way that all you see is a cloud of smoke. That cloud of smoke comes from the end of a burning cigarette, the one between my teeth. Trying to get some sort of nicotine high to clear my mind because for once, I would like to not feel like I failed. Nicotine burns in my lungs like a fire burns wood. Smoke. Ash. Fire. None need to be mixed but you can't help when you need a certain fix. I'm tired of using the same old excuse when I created a new one. "I need a cigarette." What I am trying to forget? What could possibly be so bad that you would put your own health at risk? How about the fact that when I was 11 years old, my own blood tried to attempt the impossible. How about the fact that I tried to kill myself at age 12. Or maybe how I cut my wrists open to finally feel alive. None of that matters now but I look at this apart of my past but that's what really matters isn't? Your past. Cause lately that's what seems to haunt me when I'm all alone, I want to pick up the phone and call someone just to hear another voice but it isn't that easy. No, if it was that easy, you would be free. Free from the torment. Free from the crime you committed called love.
Written By: BistyC
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
My Book Of Poems
कविताLike poetry? Well, I've found something that you'll love. So, pull up a chair, sit back and relax. Let's the stories behind these poems unfold...
