I inhale.
Slow and deep.
Tasting the smoke and choking on the air.
My lungs are so uncertain if oxygen is safe because the taste of confidence mixed with guilt and regret have only ever been forced down my nose.
I don't breath.
I can't.
The air is so crisp when I'm not home. But I must not stay away or I risk soot going down my wind pipe the next time I return.
The sticks they latch onto and exhale darkness and sickness, hoping that a fresh breeze comes out instead.
And with their false hope I am gone.
I don't return.
My lungs clear.
The air is clean and now i can breath. But there are times when the air becomes sick and I start to cough. Only for the memories to return like shoot when I inhale.
I close my eyes as I drop the dead stick from my mouth and the tears drop from my eyes.
Maybe this is why they warned me to stay inside.
That way you can't see through all the smoke of what you have become.
