STILL SMOKE

You scare me
and I don't like to see you on drugs. 
I want to stomp you like grapes into your grave.

Take back the shirts
with the skulls & the trees,
take back the drugs,
the birds & the bees.

I hope you don't burn my things
like you burned that copy of The Fountainhead I gave you
outside my first apartment door.

I hope you don't cave in on yourself and collapse
under that fake feeling of weight
from all the orange translucent bottles
and all of that fresh air.

I am removing pieces of myself that I gave
from your crippled sickly heart, and

you had better fucking sit still.