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I’m smoking a cigarette.

My lungs aren’t going to be happy with me.

I don’t care at this point.

I’m losing a lot of weight.

I like it.

It’s completely ruining my body.

I hate it.

I’m living in a house full of people who I love.

They don’t love me.

They don’t even like me.

Not anymore.

That hurts.

I hate admitting it.

I hate admitting that I’m not okay.

Sometimes I am.

I’ve never felt so alone.

I just got ash all over me.

This poem is dumb and meaningless.