A new hobby, a habit.
How many do I need to smoke to burn my lungs?
How black are my lungs now?
Are they black as my soul?
Stained by all of the sins I’ve done and will do?
How will I describe them if I ever dissect myself?
Black as charcoal?
Black as midnight with a few popping stars that faintly shine, indicating some kind of existing hope?
How many do I need to smoke to destroy my lungs, so it can shut-down my heart?
Why do I need to indirectly damage my heart?
Why don’t I just get a knife and stab it already and get it over with?
Why all of this dramatic slow suicide?
Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten.
I don’t want them to directly look and know that the problem lies in my heart.
I don’t want them to find the name carved within that bloody muscle.
I don’t want them to blame you.
I don’t want them to find out about all this love that I am saving for you.
I don’t want them to find the painful sufferings and point their fingers at you.
I don’t want you to know that these are my true emotions towards you.
I don’t want my strong self to be crushed by this weakly that I am now.
I want the love I have in this beating muscle of mine to be hidden from prying eyes, including you.
I want to burn it along with my soul and leave no trace of it in this cruel world.
So tell me,
How many do I need to smoke to burn my existence from history?