he pictures me
with a cigarette in between my teeth.
he pictures me
illuminated, tangled up
in his sunlit sheets.
little death stick
in between my fingers.
he pictures things
he thinks i'd say.
something clever,
i'd hope.
i love the early mornings
when his room is alight with smoke
rising up out of his chest, into the air
as we stare at the swirls on the ceiling and
this is not a romanticisation of nicotine addiction
rather an observation made by a girl about a boy.
an observation about a boy
who could never seem to quit on things,
despite how toxic.
he kills himself slowly overthinking and
what am i supposed to do? stand by?
pretend like nothing's wrong?
boy, you've got so many problems
and you think you can just
smoke them all away.
maybe when your insides deteriorate
you'll find the right words to explain
why you push me away so easily- yet
tell me i'm the one you can't live without.
