He used me like his cigarette;
flimsy and weak between his fingers,
and said I was his addiction.
With sultry lips and white lies,
how could I be anything more than nicotine?
Then he got his rush, adrenaline high and pumping and lusting after the world; a world which did not include me in it.
He left all at once, and threw and crushed me to the ground,
used and suffocating—
yet nobody's hands were wrapped around my throat.
Heavy heart, tar coated, ash filled lungs.
But it was all from second hand smoke.
YOU ARE READING
BOYS
Poetryto: all the boys who have broken hearts and left dry stars in their wake.
