I remember wondering
why anyone would smoke
knowing it would **** them.
I suppose I assumed that
it was for an Instagram picture
of a morning drag and coffee;
for friends and ten minute breaks
But I think it might be learned apathy
because who the **** cares about lungs
when they won't be the first part of you
to crumble into useless, unbeautiful ruin.
Nowadays I feel a lot like a smoker
for someone who's never touched a cigarette.
I'd end the poem here
but I wish, I wish, you wouldn't smoke
and I hope I don't die.