Poisonous Smoke

I hate to think of myself as a convenience store that you only enter at night on a rush, looking only at the things I have displayed. You’re moving them out of place violently, but ultimately getting none of them. I hate to think of myself as the one you know you can use to draw your misery away from you, to inhale all of your poisonous smoke, I hate it, even if I’ve been waiting for so long to be someone’s first choice. I hate to think about myself the same way I know you do, crumpled tissue with everlasting patience without even ground to stand on, ever, the truth pains me and pulls me apart, I don't want you to stop thinking about me at all.