So they say:
I am diseased
because I’m different.
I am disgusting,
for I am distinct.

I am a widow on the wall,
a cockroach in the kitchen.
I am stubbed within the sand,
gouged into the grass.
You hold me in your index,
and huff me out your mouth,
for I, the English cigarette;
am a sickness in your lungs,
and the cancer beneath your feet.

I am black,
I am bubonic,
I am a plague.

They seem to fear my spread,
yet, I am pushed, I am prodded,
I am pummeled down to bone,
for I, the English cigarette;
am extinguished by your touch,
a light, and lifeless ****,
an easy target
caught between your malice
and the cruelty of your words.