Match-stick-burn

The smoke claws at my hair like wisps of guilt, it swirls around the hem of my jeans and trails up my skin. I watch it at play. I don't do it, I only watch. But sometimes, that's enough.
Sometimes, not choosing is a choice.

Give up, Give in, same old ' and they lived happily ever after'.
I've always wanted to know, what happens next?

I could be you.
I could have your story.
I could have had your story.

But I choose to make my own, with matchstick figures and bloodstained fingers.
All I need is a pen to draw lines.