This poem is an ashtray
grey, round, and chipped on the rim
dirty and wasted from your countless cigarettes
whose burning embers were smothered
into its swollen belly.
This poem is an ashtray
broken, tired, and scratched all over
who sat on your patio
used to fulfill filthy habits
in times when stress and emptiness conquered you.
This poem is an ashtray
abused, weak, and out of place
a secret kept from parents and friends
something you ran to when there was no one else
to take you inside and turn you upside-down.