She pressed her lips against the filter of a half-smoked cigarette and lit it. To her, there were forms of slow suicide. There was smoking. And then there was love. It hurts less to inhale and exhale than to have her heart shatter into uncountable pieces. It felt better to smoke than to feel pain.

She took a drag and blew a cloud towards the midnight sky.

1. savehersanity liked this
2. emynence liked this
3. thingsemeraldlikes reblogged this from jhayjhaythejetplane
4. thatonehelloworldguy liked this
5. jised liked this
6. s-alts-kin reblogged this from jhayjhaythejetplane
7. vyrkin liked this
8. fleurdelaguerre liked this
9. rhi-arms liked this
10. jhayjhaythejetplane posted this