When I smell nicotine
I think of her,
and I think it's kind
of funny her nickname's
Nikki.

Men thought of her
as half smoked stogies
they can get a buzz from
and just flick away.
Her mind set was,
if they decided to abuse
her, hey, it's not her
that's gonna end up getting
lung cancer.

But really I shouldn't be comparing
this woman to cigarettes.
She's more exotic than any
American spirit or
no. 27 that you could find.
She's straight, she swears
but she ground her hips
against mine just as fine
as she grinds her ****.
My lips were attached to her neck
and when we switched spots
she laughed as my moans echoed out
the open window.

Now this woman. She has the highest
level of confidence
or self-esteem I have ever seen.
But she could shrink her
waist in a week
if someone commented
on how skinny I was.
She's had her body held in a cage,
but they couldn't tame her.
She's not afraid of anything.
Not with her chinked eyes,
or methed out shake,
I don't think you can intimidate
someone after they've had
a gun held to their face.

She deserves so much more
then she has been giving herself.
So when I smell nicotine I try to place
the memories of the flavor in my mouth
on us trying to cover up the **** smell.
Her memory shouldn't be brought up
by the smell of a cancer stick.
But then again,
She's just as deadly as one.