his weekends
between white walls
alone
rugged mattress
wrapped in dandelions
artificial
turqoise curtains
dry, soft; lavenders
indifferent
his knife dances
above snow white skin
how dull
he clicks the flame
ignites an escape.
will it work again?
how does it feel
to be conscious?
he's smoked a thousand times
to be alive;
he heard mischief was meant to
spark interest
to breathe into him a passion
something to make him wild
he thought the warmth of
cigarettes would set him free
but he was unclear
at what freedom even meant; alluring?
but all he felt was the bitterness of smoke
drown his throat; the chemicals
stabbing his hurting lungs.
cells within him shutting down
it mattered once
he enjoyed the anticipation of
doing something wrong;
made him livid
and now he does it
for the sake of it
of having nothing to do
for the sake of death
because he's heard that death
is quite the opposite of life?
what could ever be
more adventurous than that?