Once again, he finds himself with cigarette ashes dusting his keyboard. He wonders if they’ve become pressed permanently into the keys by how often his fingers strike down against them. The smoke still stings his eyes and floats up his nose; he never learned how to smoke a cigarette without using his hands. Maybe the ashes have become so deeply ingrained in his fingers and his being that he will be able to be blown away like they are. Perhaps he is even more fragile than the ashes that seem to surround him at every moment.
There is no comfort provided in the sound that reaches his ears. His jaw may not have bruises decorating it this time but there is a small piece of his lip missing from where he bit through at the moment of impact. He once said he could count the number of times he was truly happy on one hand. He does not know if there were more times than that or less. His memory seems to be fading further and further away with each day, just like everything he’s ever had.
Everything is moving far too fast for this boy. He still tries to convince himself that he’s a man but he knows better. He’s still a boy with a tongue laden with cigarette smoke, smoke that had been accumulating for six years, smoke that has been suffocating under the guise of healing for six years.
He once believed himself when he said that he would no longer cry. which was nothing but silly words spoken from a deceiving tongue. Who that tongue meant to deceive, he was not sure. He wishes he could tell the truth, he yearns for it, but it does not seem within his grasp. He wished to be strong. He knew it was meaningless to wish upon a star, yet he still tried anyway.
All the words are blurred by a thick veil of smoke and he can only feel his pulse in the lacerations travelling up his arm. Other than that, he has not felt his pulse in a long time. Not since it all began ten years ago.
He is almost eighteen and he is the scum of the earth.