this buildup of smog inside my throat restricts me
always restricting me
he told me not to
i told him i wouldnt because he said so
will i appear as the carcass everyone else illustrates me as?
painting me in brown and black and red
colors that belong to somebody else
however somehow my lips are always red
and my lungs are always black
and i wonder why my fingers are always caressing my vocal chords
and sometimes pain feels good
i demolished a beautiful idea
with my deadly habits
but i have yet to accomplish how to inform him
that although i'm so afraid of death
it would be so so sweet
just as he his.
