his weekends
between white walls
alone

rugged mattress
wrapped in dandelions
artificial

turqoise curtains
dry, soft; lavenders
indifferent

his knife dances
above snow white skin
how dull

he clicks the flame
ignites an escape.
will it work again?

how does it feel
to be conscious?

he's smoked a thousand times
to be alive;
he heard mischief was meant to
spark interest
to breathe into him a passion
something to make him wild

he thought the warmth of
cigarettes would set him free
but he was unclear
at what freedom even meant; alluring?

but all he felt was the bitterness of smoke
drown his throat; the chemicals
stabbing his hurting lungs.
cells within him shutting down

it mattered once
he enjoyed the anticipation of
doing something wrong;
made him livid

and now he does it
for the sake of it
of having nothing to do
for the sake of death

because he's heard that death
is quite the opposite of life?

what could ever be
more adventurous than that?