I'd rather stink like a cigarette
than smell your skin lingering on mine.
I prefer the nicotine rush
to the surge in my blood when your lips touch mine.
I'd rather hear the click of my lighter
than the hiss and explosion of the Fourth of July
An ashen glow of smokey tobacco lights my way
And I'd rather put trust in this fading fire than
put my trust in the pounding of my chest
and the sparklers in my eyes
Because there's always one more pack
at yet another corner store
But, my love,
there's only one of you
and you're fading so fast
And without my addiction, how can I last?

I hardly know what I'm doing
As I ask the clerk for a pack of naturals behind the counter.
My make-up from yesterday's shift preserved nicely,
So the exchange followed suit.
I'm not good at this.
Naturally.
Fifteen minutes before walking into the convenient store
I paced the empty terminals of a car wash
Rehearsing my demeanor and forced eye contact.
I hate eye contact.
Stand tall and look confident.
But not too confident.
Be charming,
But not desperate.
Don't try to be ****.
(You're not ****.)
I'm four foot ten
And twenty years old.
Buying a pack of cigarettes for an addiction I don't carry
Shouldn't be this hard.
I'm not damaged,
I'm not drunk.
I'm not struggling,
And I'm certainly not a cigarette smoker.
But I'm here,
In Boston,
Stuck in-between the fibers of a girl
Who writes bad poetry and
Hardly knows what she's doing with much of anything.
Naturally.

I pull it inside.
It cools me as it flows downward.
It's black, sticky hands wrap around my lungs.
A cool shiver trickles down my spine.
My muscles unclench from the daily beating.
My blood calms down.
I have escaped the calls of the blade for now.
For now, the smoke flies away with me.