Bad Coping Mechanisms

I could smell your cigarettes from a mile away,
and although you no longer smoke them the memory
still burns my lungs just the same.
It's as if I were the one to light up,
no you could never keep the fight up;
in spite of me begging you to stop.
I get it man, we all have bad coping mechanisms,
a way of pumping stress from the heart.
You did it with orange and white coated nicotine,
and I, with metallic blades.
You shared your broken dreams though they were never spoken.
You never have to explain to me how the smell of
your life ending with every pull.
Seeing your death approach after every puff of
smoke brings an indescribable sense of comfort, joy,
an end to all the pain;this I understand.
I coped to feel and you, you coped to forget.
Tell me how I could never understand your cloud nine.
I saw dark skies polluted by smoke, you caught glimpses of sunshine,
and you were addicted. The hold they had on you was not figurative,
tell me how the thin stick has all the control
and I'll explain how every blade handles it's hold.
You drag and I thrash, you're numb and I'm sad.
Your brain is swimming in nicotine and you can't think straight,
if you're going to go then take me with you,
so you can forget and I can feel.
These blades never lost their appeal, but you quit and so did I.
I've picked up new methods over time.
The old versions of us are engraved in my
brain and your smoke is killing me, but maybe that was yesterday.

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