The fever in her chest peaked to dangerous levels last night. Between the mold of her breast. Pain clenches and release with each breath. She is no long curious because if it. That spark has been promptly put out and the smoke is just drawing lazy circles in her head.
So tired of being the fighter and not the lover she is made to be. Rest. Stop. and Fuck it. Irritated, no cigarettes to calm her down. Every breath that brings the delusion of happiness closer now hangs off her arm. She knows they are just scars but she can still feel them.
Its hard for people to understand her, and its even harder for her to get others to comprehend so she says rest. stop. and fuck it. fuck it. fuck it. fuck it.