You know the type of girl I am. I am the girl that looks at you from across a crowded room. To slide a long white cigarette out from its pack. To place it in between my red lips, inbetween my manicured nails, and look at you as I light up. I hold the cigarette angled up by my head and my eyes bore deep into you.

My eyes.

We both know what they are saying.

If I'm a bad enough to smoke, what else am I bad enough to do.

I'll let you be the judge.