"Come lay with me. I wanna talk about nothing with someone that means something."
I'm weird. I hate labels and most people. I love antiques. I love being in the middle of no where. I love trucks, John deere tractors, and camouflage. And to be perfectly honest I'm really not sure why. I grew up in a small town. I hate high expectations and just want to live my life without being judged. And I try to be a nice person, most days. Some days I feel like being a bitch. But that's my life. And I think everyone just needs to deal with it.
We have a refrigerator magnet that reads,
‘I’ll quit smoking when you quit breathing.’
When I was a kid I would hold my breath until I choked but my father still burned through a pack a day, my mother still stopped at convenience stores, still shelled out money to Marlboro. She complained about wasting money when we asked for candy at checkout.
When I was too old for blue-faced protests but not old enough to be cynical,
I found myself half in love with a boy who craved nicotine like I craved his skin.
One day I pointed at the cigarette glowing in his hand and said,
You smoke like they’ll make you live forever.
He rolled up his sleeves and showed me the scars criss-crossing his arms.
No, he told me.
I smoke like I’ll die tomorrow.
Because if I smoke enough, I will.
I started to notice my father’s weary eyes,
My mother’s trembling hands.
I wondered if they were as invincible as I’d always thought they were.
I wondered if they thought about tombstones with every flick of the lighter.
I wondered if that’s what made them raise the cigarette to their lips.
I never saw the cigarettes on our coffee table in the same light. (via poppyflowerpoetry)