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How To Smoke A Cigarette Without Slitting Your Wrists
I looked into the mirror and vomitted.
A makeshift image that was unidentifyable because of broken glass,
If you know me,
It was me.
I look like shame and I feel like anger,
I hold the spade that will excavate my grave,
I am as dead as breaths can be.
There's no hope to subdue the emotionless havoc,
No mask to hide this placid face,
No words to punch holes in the walls.
So within these lines I type,
I pray you don't understand,
Because the minute you do,
You will have your own blood on your hands.
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This is a poem.