One cigarette at a time. Smoke lingers on my skin. Breathe in, and breathe out. That's what we were taught. Pain fades with time. Nausea sets in.
Somehow I can't handle. The slits on my wrists show everything.
It shows that I'm weak. That I can't handle a simple broken heart.
Even though, time and time again, I've felt this way before.
Love always got the best of me.
