I lit a cigarette and watched it burn,
watched my life burn with it,
a slow, painful thing that never left,
always there, always lingering.
The smoke filled my lungs like regret,
a bitter taste I couldn’t shake,
and every drag was a reminder –

I’ve been running too long.

Chasing highs that never lasted,
thinking the next hit would be different,
but it never was.
Just more emptiness,
more numbness,
more of the same garbage,
but I kept coming back for it,
like a dog to its own vomit.

Every drink, every drag,
every broken moment of instant relief

it all left me worse than before,
chasing something that didn’t exist,
something that wasn’t real.
I thought it would fix me,
but it just cracked me open,
left me raw,
with a taste in my mouth
I couldn’t scrub out,
no matter how many times I tried.

Now, I’m left with the aftertaste,
the burn that never goes away,
the truth that stings like it should’ve all along.
I didn’t survive,
I just numbed myself
until I couldn’t feel anything at all.
And now, all that’s left is the taste,
the bad flavor of a life wasted
on everything that wasn’t worth it.