Cigarettes don’t make you cool or interesting.
They only **** what little life you were given.
But your lungs **** too,
so I’ll pass you a well-decorated lighter,
and we can have a smoke until our vision blurs

—or you begin to cough,
even though I warned you: we were never made for this.

Cigarettes don’t make you cool or interesting,
but they can make you sad.
 They can make you remember
what your father smelled like when you were nine.
 Sometimes, they taste like my bedroom carpet floor.
 Sometimes, I think of the puke that rested on it
after I drank too much ***** one night.

I hope you think I’m mysterious. 
I hope my lips taste like a powerful drug.
 I hope my personality is just as addictive as I am.
 And I hope I **** someone
just as slowly as the cigarettes do.