A Poem

In weeks when I’m filterless
I know that I say
The most terrible things
And you always forgive me:
Knowing that it burns me, too,
It burns me true
To dead ash on my heart
That I part with my words
Smoke rising, prised
From my lungs
(magicians pockets,
Scarred by grey tissue)
How do you do it? I know
That it causes you harm, second hand
Yet you still understand
That I’m coughing
The taste of my blood.
This is love,
Pulling the paper from my grip,
Saving my lips from the scars
That my hot thin words leave
As I’m breathing the ache out.
And I’m always sorry,
And I always give up,
‘til I’m choked on my next time,
A million last times,
This time
I won’t do it again
I won’t exhale my pain
Into the clean air you need
Into the fogged air you breathe
While you’re fighting your own ghosts
And the smoke that they leave.


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