you don't smoke anymore 'cause
you said it won't do your body no
good, and the bitterness that came
with the fumes of disease never
really tasted right on your twisted
tongue, and maybe that twenty
pack never looked right in the front
pocket of your high-end blouse-
too detrimental to your reputation-
and that stick of cancer was so alien
between your manicured fingernails
all pastel pink and perfectly pretty
your soft suburban aesthetic
so those marlboro lights and their
lipstick stains, in your eyes, all
became marlboro darks, poison to
purge, a bad habit to curb, but
you found other vices and they're
not so pretty either, they definitely
won't do your body no good, but
i guess you can handle the bitter
taste of a blade on your wrists and
the smooth silver doesn't jar with
your soft suburban aesthetic when
it's poised between your pristine
fingernails, as razor sharp as those
pointed tips, albeit glossier under
the dying embers of the cigarettes
you quit because you thought they
wouldn't do your body any
good
