Belief-ing.

I want to believe I'm believable.

I want the wind to take the last drag off of this cigarette.

So I don't have to spend my nights

believing I'm addicted to this.

I don't want to believe I've come undone.

I spend nights staring at my ceilings,

waiting for them to cave in,

I can never stop smiling

the nights I feel the plaster hitting my skin.

Here I go,

blaming the walls that keep me confined.

While I hold the axe.

and hesitate to resist becoming another speck.

I know now,

I don't believe in anything.

not even myself.