I dug this old poem up which I wrote when I was 15 years old. It gave me shivers when I read it today.
I don't know if at the time, I intended the girl in the poem to be based on myself.
Perhaps I did.
The ground is cold
The first drag of a cigarette is always the strongest
The sweet taste of rum is still on her lips
The bottle is in pieces
Her toes walk across the broken glass
Red paints the ground
She shows no distress
She just watches the smoke exit out of her lungs
Stumbling, she hits the ground hard
She is staring now, impassively at the empty wall
A small, wet drop runs down her cheek
And then she remembers why she is here
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