Show me a killer. Please.

Another wild weekend passes by, with a huge switch in alliances. Apparently, I am no longer in a circle I didn't quite realize existed. More importantly, people I had begun to trust (unwarranted trust, mind you) proved to be a bit... wishy washy?
My family is hilarious. I know all families have bizarre and amusing interactions, but I think mine is one of the few with death threats.
For those confused, I started some war with the majority of the family I'm in contact with. Regret level: 0. What can I say? My brother is a punk. Such is life.
Today’s piece was just finished 45 seconds or so before I began writing this little rant. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't heavily inspired by a morning of Bukowski and Gluck. Ah, and my dear Aoide of course. Great set of muses to have, wouldn't you agree?

What happens then?

"You're killing yourself"
She maunders,
casually chewing a handful of cashews.
I can't help but smile,
threads of smoke escaping
my overbite.

"You're probably right."
But I'm awfully sick of
Life
anyway.
I keep the last half to
myself
raising my cigarette
to my lips
I'm sure she knows already-
it's hard to hide indifference.
Harder still to get over it.
Eventually I'll try.

"Don't you ever worry about dying?"
Her eyebrows are tight already,
as if she’s angry at the response
I haven't given yet.

I choose not to give it.

"I worry more about living."
The crowd in my mind
goes wild.
The world moves smoothly when
You're your own biggest fan.
Wordy wordsmith: One Point.

"You and your fucking poetry.
If you'd listen to listen
instead of listening to respond
you'd be a lot better."
She's fuming now
and I swear I can see
smoke
(thicker than the stream rising
from my sweet cigarette)
seeping from her nostrils.

Taking a long drag,
nodding
I can't help but smile

"You're probably right."