in the front seat of your car,
a cigarette not yet burning between your cracked lips you turned towards me reluctantly
i saw the end in your eyes
as you pulled the lighter from your pocket and set fire to your lungs you said something that i could barely hear over that shitty mixtape i made you for your birthday last year
you said:
'i really need to quit these soon.'
i can not be your nicotine
i'm the reason you listen to The Smiths at 3: 15 a.m. while you scream about your failures and heartbreak
it's not fair to take it out on your pillows and bed sheets, they're more fragile, they can't fight back
i am those pillows
i am those bedsheets
i am an elegant glass window waiting to shatter
i am crumbling
my bones will be nothing but dust soon
think of me whenever you sneeze
tell me, why do i bother to speak when my words don't even flow through your body like poetry anymore? i can't choke out a word without bawling.
i'm not a poet, i'm a suicide note
these vocal chords are now electric fences from continuously crying out your name, hoping, pleading you would hear me,
screaming at the universe until i couldn't handle the agony of your shock therapy anymore. this is not a beautiful pain;
misery is not beautiful.
in the front seat of your car, lit cigarettes between both of our lips,
you explained to me that you often hear a bizarre ringing in your ear
you are clueless as to where it came from and when it began but the unfamiliar comfort gave you assurance that you were
still breathing
still existing
you said it was 'remarkable'
i never stopped screaming
and like that, i keep you alive
Abigail Woods
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-does-not-have-a-title/
