Lipstick stained cigarettes and old bookshops will remind you of me even if you can’t remember what you’re remembering.
I stared blankly at the mirror across from my bed. My face pale, my expression flat. My hair fell loosely to the sides of my colourless cheeks. I brought a hand to my lips, slowly they were chapped, and I recalled a time when I would go out and paint them a bold red. Now a faint pink sits upon them like they want so desperately to be loved again but they are lacking the strength. I can see my ribs beneath my skin, pressing, screaming to be let out of the home that is destroying itself. I lean over the side of my bed and pick up my boyfriends t-shirt and let it cover the sight of flesh and bone, it was making me ill. It’s also the only piece of clothing in my room that doesn’t reek of tobacco. He never approved of the habit, but it kept me sane for a little while. I looked down at my legs, red lines across thighs from a night when I prayed, if I could only kill the worst of me, I could be better. I lean over the bed again and grab my cigarette carton. I haven’t left the house in about a week, I think. I’m not sure. I haven’t been keeping track of the days, or how many cigarettes I smoke a day, but someone must be replacing packs when I’m sleeping, I sleep a lot these days.
I was fifteen the first time I took a drag from a cigarette.
I felt dizzy and my stomach unsettled.
I get the same feeling every time your lips meet mine.
Only this time the cravings are worse.
She made the taste of cigarettes and whiskey somehow desirable when it was left on her lips.
Cigarettes are better for me,
Than you ever were.
Autumn is a time for the carefree
Autumn is a time where the damaged souls feel comfort in the trees and the wind,
Autumn is a time for chainsmokers and poets to reveal who they are,
Autumn is a time for lovers who do not know how to love,
The ones who find their emotions at the bottom of a bottle.
Autumn is the time where we can cover the scars and pretend,
Even just for a few months,
We are understood.
Damaged isn’t the right word, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.
She’s the girl at the bar who lets others push through her, she’s decided she’s not worthy of attention first.
That’s why she sleeps with married men and doesn’t mind being the last resort when all your friends bailed on a night out.
So I’ll sit with her as she waits for the train and give her cigarettes and gently graze her thigh.
She believes she’s easily replaced but if you know anyone with eyes as sad as hers than that’s enough proof that this world is absolute shit.
When I first met her, reading alone in some underrated coffeehouse in an area of town you don’t want to spend too much time in, I could have sworn she was well into her twenties.
She’s just a kid who grew up too fast.
Perhaps she could have been beautiful if this world hadn’t have been so cold. Now she spends her days only half alive and he nights so hazed with drugs and drinks and men so strange she won’t have many left.
So she sits and reads novels about lives crueler than her own, smokes mint cigarettes so death can taste a little sweeter, and will pretend like she’s something special.