Roll up my sleeve and look at the stripes against my skin,
Too pale, too long, time to start again.
Not there, they still check.
I reach in my pocket and pull out my pack.
Place the filter in my mouth and cup my hand over the lighter
Breathe in, taste the smoke, and feel it seep inside
Warmth rolls over my fingers,
Warmth called smoke, warmth that lingers,
Blow out the breathe, see the dissipation
Flick some ashes, another breathe of damnation.
Done with the cigarette, stomp it beneath my bare heel
Burns a little, but I don't mind in the slightest.
Slide my wallet out of my purse.
Sit against the graveyard's tree,
Really is lovely a thing to see.
Pull at the tape that holds down the blade,
It sticks to my fingers and I can't flick it away
F*ck it anyway.
Skinny little razor, cold in this winter,
My fingers don't tremble, my mouth does not whimper.
I slip the edge against my thigh, press hard enough to draw liquid iron.
The red seeps out, as the smoke did in,
Breathe a deep sigh at the satisfaction.
My heart thuds dimly in the background of my thoughts
My thoughts which spin numbly
Euphoric at the loss.
Put the blade back, stick him to the leather,
Put back my wallet
Stick my hand in the crevice
Between two roots of the tree I lean against,
I feel the damp, dark mud and the leaves and acorns
Grounding me, unfortunately, to my current reality.
Swipe the red away.
Stand up, pull the long pants over my shorter ones.
Pour the cold water over my bloody muddy fingers
Wrap my lips around another filter.
It never really ends,
Because it never really began.
I used to sit beneath a huge oak tree at the historic cemetery in our town. It was beautiful, but more importantly-it was quite secluded.