My friend told me
When he was little
He wanted nothing more
Than to be a cigarette
When he grew up.
When I asked him why,
He told me
It was because his mother
Loved nothing more
Than cigarettes,
That she was always
Too busy for him
But never too busy
For her next drag.
When she was upset
She would turn to her cigarettes,
Tipping the ashes into
Her porcelain ashtray.
She never played with him
She only smoked.
And when her cancer
Took her away
And he went to live with his dad
I asked him again:
What do you want to be
When you grow up?
This time,
His answer was the bottles.
The bottles his dad
Always seemed to have
In his calloused hands.
His dad held a steady job
For a few years
Until he showed up to work
Hungover.
He lost his job that day
And became violent.
My friend showed up to school
The next day
Covered in bruises,
His eye swollen shut.
He wanted his father’s love
His attention
Even after then
When he was always drunk
And beating the **** out of him.
Even after all these years
With his father
Sharing the same fate as his mother,
He still wants to be
Those cigarettes
And that nasty *** ***.
Everything his parents
Ever loved.
you're worth much more than you think