I found warmth in your back pockets. Your kisses taste like ash and graveyards; trading smoke between barely parted lips, shotgunning to get a taste of what death feels like. Your touch is poison and leaves me with nightmares, but nothing is more cathartic than to die by your hand night after night.
Both the devices which I ordinarily use to self-administer my nightly regimen of cannabinoid anti-inflammatories are presently Fucked, and have been so since the day before Dad was hospitalized, leaving me full of lesions, swollen joints, and brainfog, and thereby rendering my hands too shaky to do the necessary cleaning/refilling/part replacements. NEVER put off weed vape maintenance.
