Burning My lungs Out



The lighter clicks again.
not for the flame, but for the sound.
It's a reminder that i’m still here.
unfortunately my fingers stink of something
that isn’t nicotine. Regret, maybe.
Or the parts of me that 
i keep killing in slow doses.

It is i who lit the cigarette
but it’s rather me who is burning,
slow, like shame under my skin
the smoke doesn't rise,
it coils back into my throat
some times it never leaves.

what's more miserable here
the ashes,
the filth,
or me?
maybe it’s the silence after the exhale,
like how my lungs forgot what to breathe
without hurting, without aching

The sky seems too empty tonight.
no stars. no witness.
just me, drown deep miserable 
and a dying stick of hell, 
that never judged me. 

Every time i am burning my lungs out,
that my chest couldn't bury
and i wonder,
if i go out like this too often. 
What'd burn faster me or the cigerette. 

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