3am cigarettes.

night's favours

I'm writing to you out of hate,
listen well - or don't,
i don't care, I've left that word a long time ago buried along your sweet lies.

It is, night, again,
you're probably on some another city,
different streets, different people now.
while I'm stuck here, in the same old house we used to smoke in scared shitless from your mum walking in -
i'd smoke your name through mine, you'd always ask what was with me writing your name on it; i'd always say nothing.

I'd smoke your name hoping I'd inhale you just enough to let you consume my dearest self and inhale the hope your name gave to me - slowly as you'd do when you'd tug your hair back and look dearly with your stupid blue eyes into my dirty, trashed soul,

you'd stain my skin with your fingertips with innocence and you'd hope I'd quit smoking before you,

now I,

I don't think I can quit, I need to wash off your name from my lungs,

I need it to be darker, and darker -

I need it to stain your name ontop and when the doctors cut me open,

they'd only see poison and nothing else, no hope, no bit of your name, none.

Alcohol cause burned your name and memories long time ago, it has scratched it off from the walls of my throat,

But there's days where I found small bits of you that cut my throat and make me bleed your words out, and I fall down,

I cry and cry until you're completely out of my system, I spit the blood out in the bathroom we used to make dreams in;

Ironic.

with hate,
Dominique