he kills and he hurts and he dies everyday, only to become a ghost inside my lungs, and I talk with smoker breath. he is in my hands and in my heart and behind my eyes. You can see him if you get too close. he is an ego. he is an abuser. he is what I drank holy water to get rid of, that purple drug trip. Everything he touches is burned black, he has no sympathy. somebody asked me why you can see my hands waver between a knife and a flower. somebody asked me why I break the skin on lips and let it drain. somebody asked me why they can see my eyes turn to glass when someone asks me how I am. which one of us?
