They told me to do it;
it’ll be fun.
You’ll feel good, you’ll look sexy.
With that cigarette in your hand,
every demand is my command.
They told me it would relax me.
They said it would make everyone love me.
Like I would turn into a goddess,
my career would be boosted.
People will admire me,
aspire to be me.
With that cigarette,
I could be whoever I wanted to be.
I would be amazing, flawless,
beautiful.
But, I think the word they were looking for,
was tragic.
And they, as well as the rest of society,
have this strange assumption that tragedy
is alluring, fascinating, captivating, absolute.
But, let me assure you,
that’s all from the outside perspective,
the one who is selling the product,
the people aiming for the useless green trash that
seems to run our entire existence,
it’s all just advertising.
Because the reality from the inside
of an utterly tragic life, is terribly painful.
So to all of those who told me I’d be beautiful,
am I now?
Do you honestly believe these dark,
sunken eyes and
addicted, dying lungs would agree with you?
Is my bruised face fascinating now?
How about my yellow teeth?
Oh, and that god awful smell that has
concealed itself within everything I own?
Is that “oh so alluring” now?
Please, anyone.
Tell me if these knots in my brain
are desirable.
Tell me the veins sticking out of my neck
are a sight for sore eyes.
Tell me my soul isn’t writhing in
addiction, and pain, pure agony.
TELL ME I’M HAPPY WITH THIS.
Persuade me with those myths you so sweetly
drowned me in before,
convince me with empty promises.
Kiss me with the lips of the past,
the ones that whispered with
sugar coated lies into my desperate ears.
Serve me the beauty I once saw
within that box of tragedy,
the one that sent me shattered,
fragmented,
ruptured,
permanently damaged,
on the floor of my potential.