And somehow I’ve realized that alcohol doesn’t wash away the taste of your mouth and cigarettes won’t burn up the daisies you left growing in my lungs even if their petals are tickling the back of my throat and turning red with all of the blood I’ve choked on since you stopped calling me your baby girl and my heart decided to stutter rather than pump and on good days I can’t breathe but on bad days I think about your lips and the way your fingers felt around my thigh and god I wish someone had told me it would hurt this much because I’m too young to feel this close to death.
