Funereal

cigarettes and coffee

I was never one to ask for help, but when I did it meant that the situation had already gotten out of hand, and it was a final attempt to fix what had long been broken.

My heart is a vacant coffee shop with a neon sign that flickers but still reads "open".

There is nobody here for miles.

Even though you're right next to me, I can feel the square feet surrounding my body and my mind and my soul in this dark dilemma that I face; to be or not to be.

I guess Shakespeare knew what he was talking about, but I bet he didn't know that I would be taking his words so literally, or that I would be sitting at the edge of the balcony railing, praying, contemplating, deviating from all my Sunday School beliefs in that moment.

You begged me not to let go in that moment, but how can I explain that I have not let go of that moment, in which I could finally have been released from this world that holds me captive, because you were the one that asked me to stay.

You are special.

You are different.

You are beauty, and you are pain wrapped up in the form of a cigarette that you refuse to ever put up to your lips, but one that I would gladly smoke until my dying days because I need you.

I was addicted to cigarettes and coffee, but recently I've swapped the two with mental illnesses and the thought of you, and who in their right mind could blame me?

It's not right for me to romanticize my addictions in order to show you how much I love you, but I cannot deny that in this moment I would gladly trade this broken heart for burning lungs.

You are the xanax sitting at the top of my friend's dresser that she hasn't touched for months; you are calling to me the same way a bottle calls an alcoholic that knows better but cannot help himself.

Isn't it odd that I've been beginning to feel worse with every passing moment?

Even after the withdrawal is no longer painful, my hunger for something I am addicted to is like a monster that scrapes the inside of my torso with its sharps claws, clawing at me, screaming, begging for something to be familiar with.

We always went out for coffee, and I'm not sure if you knew that this made me crave a cigarette or your lips; whichever one was more obtainable.

Cut the cord; cut the cable that connects me to every part of me that is dependent on something that hurts me.

Cut the ties that keep you and I together long after we both recognize the mutually harmful relationship we have. Isn't it sad that the relationship we have is one of an addict and a killing machine?