I'm no beauty queen
and I chopped off my hair to make sure
everyone knew that.
The ash from the tip of my burning cigarette
is the same dark, grey color of my lungs-
and I like it that way.
There's a hole in my black tights but
I wear them with my red dress anyway.
I'll slap on some lipstick and take a few pills to
fall back down the rabbit hole.
The best part is
I won't remember why my
two dollar mascara ran down my face.
So I won't regret a single thing.

Today I smoked my
first
last
cigarette.
I tucked it between my lips
as a
mother does
each night.
I pulled the sweetest,
softest drag
and the smoke mingled with
my sadness and my
exhaustion and
my defeat.
Released in foggy grey,
these feelings floated
to the surface
like dust
blown off a tomb
That
first
last
cigarette ended
too soon.
So I lit another
and made myself a hazy halo
and crowned myself with disease
and in a destructive moment
I was empty and
I was pleased.
And I think this
first
last
cigarette,
pouring out of me in streams,
singed my pain,
made me *****,
and clean.

And I said
as I smoked
my
first
new
cigarette.
*I quit.