I am every bit as pathetic as the paper in my mouth.
The paper that will very soon become a topic of discussion among my friends;
Wondering why my hands now smell like anxiety,
Never bothering to ask.
Masochism being fed just enough to remind me to feed myself
Of course, never making me as warm as you did;
It wont ever stop trying; we both know that.
You should know I'm only doing this because of the smell.
You should know; you were there.
I could never resist concrete.
I'm only doing this because of the apathy under my eyes;
Drives that always end with the sun chase away all regrets,
For a time.
I wonder if you'll smoke me to the filter,
Or grab another when you start to burn.