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I think I'm addicted...cause I can feel this pulling...pulling my stomach up toward my mouth. And sooner or later, I'm going ot vomit out spaghetti strings of words I should have spit at you when I had the chance. They won't stick, of course, cause they were never thought out all the way.

I noticed my passion burns too fast, like a fuse. And I always try to hold onto things too long, instead of throwing them like I should.

No wonder things explode in my face.

The smoke will clear, but it takes a long time to get the smell of burning hair out of your nostrils. Eventually, you get used to it.

And I followed you that day. Limping and bruised and bleeding, but enjoying the ache. I shuffled with the leaves that were blown in the wind til you stopped in the park. I hid behind a car and saw you crawl into that yellow tube, hear the sniffing noises and your gags.

I thought about screaming. I thought about throwing myself into the car head first until I passed out. I thought....
Well.

I walked across the park to your death trap. I know you heard me, because you jumped out like nothing was wrong. Then you saw my face. My blood. I saw that ring of white in your nose.

That dulls his pain-
He dulls mine

I thought, and smiled.

"I thought you were a gentleman,"
I pouted.

"Ladies first," you said, and stepped to the side, bowing.

Two white lines lay, beckoning me forward. My light at the end of the tunnel.

I heard you chuckle.

Well, I've sold my soul to the devil now


I mumbled as I inhaled our heaven.


. . . . . . . . . .

I think I'm addicted. And sooner or later, this WILL blow up in my face.

But I'm starting to like the smell of burnt hair and....

Well, I love you.