By Zoha
Inhale. Feel it whistling on the train tracks rattling down your throat, this is the scenic route my friend
Life doesn’t have to end in a pit with no company but the ghosts of what you could have been
No, sorry, the ghosts of what you didn’t become
Will you swallow your pride and take hold of redemption, or end up swallowing nothing but the poisoned
dirt that buries you alive?
Exhales. Nerves untangling themselves like ribbon laces on ballet pumps poised upon the stage
Fury bubbles in the weathered pot home to your budget student meals
Even the moths gather mindlessly to drink the fading light oozing out of your eyes
A metronome of wasted seconds tickle the blubber of your lungs until the breath runs restless
Set your anguish free, oh tortured one, because the blood will only dry if you let it run
Raise the soot stained fingers to yellow, brittle teeth, stub poised to ghoulish lips as though it were victory
Inhale
Exhale
So yes they claim that smoking kills
But when you shoot a bullet, who’s at fault
The trigger, or the finger?
Warm regards,
Morris and Reynolds
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