Consumed
01:54 a.m.
I haven’t been in touch with myself for a long time.
Everything feels the same to me, and when something doesn’t feel the same, I desperately search for an escape something to save me from feeling. I convince myself that this way, I won’t go insane.
But it’s madness to even think that. Madness to write it.
I’ve been left with so little, and nothing feels the same anymore.
My dreaming mind no longer flies, and my depraved heart is no longer awake.
All that’s left is the cigarette burning in my hand.
It’s the only steady relationship I’ve been able to maintain.
When I have it in front of me, I spend hours without lighting it.
I stare at it calmly, breathe before letting it in and when I finally press it to my lips and bring in the flame, I hate the sensation… but it’s nothing new.
Watching the smoke, I start to revel in how awful I feel, sinking into the same old memories.
Me, so selfish. Always thinking about myself.
I start to talk, to laugh, to cry, to scream all the things I never say, to reason.
And when I finally feel like I’m reaching something…
When my fingers have grown used to the hollow space the cylinder leaves behind, It’s already burned out. I have to put it out, or it’ll burn me. And the emptiness returns.
I could light another,
But it would be the same thing all over again
Only to always end the same way.
No.
It’s too much to feel for one day…
And I no longer care.
