I only smoke when I am sad,
when I am unfazed by the idea of shaving off, three, eleven, or even thirty minutes off my lifespan.
(everyone always lists off a different number with staccato beats of "no." "stop." "watch out for your health")
I only smoke at night when the thoughts become too much and I sneak onto my roof.
Pointe dances on the ledge, letting lipstick smeared filter butts rain down onto dew moistened grass,
(I don't extinguish them sometimes
wishing upon those falling red hot stars)
I only smoke when I am barely functioning,
a cul-de-sac dwelling creature,
something in between a small flower devouring sprite and a viciously violent monster.
When I ache to turn off the world
with the simple shutting of my eyes.
when I cannot breathe and watch the news.
blocking it out with nicotine stained sighs.
