WRITING: HOW FAR WILL I GO?

I have made a habit of fucking up my life. I fell in love with a bad guy thinking I could change him. Silly me. Turned out, he ended up changing me. When I was a little girl, I saw my father lost his life to lung cancer. Swore up and down, over my dead beautiful body, that I would never lay a finger on a cig. Now I can’t go about my day without a cancer stick. One or two, sometimes three. My room is a mess and surprisingly, it hasn’t bothered me. I dream of dreaming about wanting change, but so far this mess feels nice. I am aware of what and how I look like. I feel my mother’s disgust when she calls and ask how I am. I am shamed. But not really. It’s like I live to screw myself over more. It’s like I want to push it and see how far it goes. What’s the worst thing that could happen? I die. We all do. 

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