did i forget my medicine, or is it just my terrible personality?

you're a sweater with sleeves that only reach to my wrists,

i can't pull my fingers inside for protection, 

i've outgrown you.

and i know you haven't quit smoking,

i smell cigarettes on your cardigans,

carcinogenic, 

i can taste our suicide pact in exchanges--

but weren't you crossing your fingers too...?

sometimes i still want to steal away to california,

let the city air and city cynicism 

pollute me,

the way my vices 

and nights spent with you have been doing these two years.

but there's no place for sadness like home,

and there's no place for me much of anywhere.

*yeah i am pretty sure i messed up my medicine.