Thursday, February 3, 2011

I play with my hair. It smells like winter and cigarettes. You look at me. You study my every move, like my moves can tell you something about me. You have a writing pad on your lap, a pen, loose in your hand. “Do you mind if I smoke?” I ask. “Yes, I do,” you answer. I light up a cigarette. I inhale. I feel the warm smoke fill my lungs. You look almost disturbed. You hate that you can’t control my actions. Surprisingly enough, I don’t care. That’s your biggest issue with me, that I don’t care about anything. I smile at you. It scares you. I knew it would. I keep smiling. Looking back, I think that was the moment you realized you couldn’t fix me.
Poor you.