I think about smoking sometimes
on dreary days
on quiet nights
when I'm cold
or lonely
or sad
and I just want to inhale the numb
and exhale the ache

but aren't I just inhaling the poison
and exhaling it too?
I take it into myself
and breathe it out into the world

I think about rainy nights sometimes
dark, with the taste of a storm in the air
faded music playing in the background
door half-open
me, leaning over the balcony railing
with death perched between my lips

I think about smoke
spewing from my mouth
carrying all misery away
burning through the walls I can't tear down

I imagine cigarettes
come with leather jackets
sly smiles painted red
and sharp eyes lined black
with a devilish spark in them

They pair so nicely with
the blackest of nights
with bonfires and quiet laughter
and with silent solitude

But then I remember
crooked smiles with yellowed teeth
lungs, withered and black
coughing, gasping for clean air
because they're so infected with smoke