It's Just Who I Am

I like smoke, glass and creeping back to the dead. 

the wisps of smoke remind me of clouded judgments, 

the shreds of glass sing of the jagged edges of my heart,

the dead, well, it's just who i am.

throughout the night, i toss and turn.

the dead should be still,

the glass, cutting through and the smoke, transient.

none of that.

I'm not still, I don't bleed, and my heart still flutters.

not yet.

not just yet, I think. 

however, I promise myself:

next time, the smoke wouldn't be blinding,

the rose-tinted glass would be see-through,

and the dead?

it's just who I am.