Cigarettes and Empty Thoughts

Oh Christ, I'm fucking hungry

For the cigarette days full of black coffee,

Tiny little jeans, and horrid aftershave

When I was a nail-bitten mess

Hopped up on so much caffeine

My dreams buzzed with it.

.

I'm fucking starving

For the taste of my own blood,

The reminiscent feeling of growing nostalgia.

Didn't I know that I would miss it?

The green tea, the rope around my wrist,

The rub of things always pissing me off?

.

I remember the color of the fridge,

Gunmetal gray through the cigarette smoke

And I can feel the burning embers warming

Perpetually cold hands,

Filling hopeless lungs that would otherwise

Drown.

.

Is that what I'm doing now, then?

Drowning.

It must be, because I can't taste the smoke

Or the tobacco

Or the beautiful, bitter black coffee.

I can only inhale thick, suffocating truths.

.

Those cloudy days are gone.

But I want to be back on the bottom.

I want to feel the hopeless shadows

Swirl around cavity-ridden teeth

And bite into poison apples

Until the carriage comes to carry me home.

.

I want to pretend the nightmares bother me

And lie about missing Jupiter in the three a.m. sky.

I want to sink my nails into my skin and hear it tear

And find comfort in knowing I am changing my suit,

My mask, my face, my soul.

I want to pretend I never overcame the darkness.

.

I want it to win.

I want to sink my teeth into a good fucking

That leaves me empty inside

With the taste of regret and that glorious flavour

Of burnt pancake house coffee

Floating on my tongue.

.

I want to pretend I won't see you again,

That I'll wait until midnight

When my car's out of gas

Until I'll call you.

I want to know I would have done it

No matter the time.

.