My head turns into a pile of ash
until your fingers flick me.
Smoke billows out—
curling in spirals toward the sky.

You light me up,
place me where you keep your lies—
between your lips,
sometimes held by teeth.

I burn slow for you,
but not fast enough
to chase away the pain
you’re trying to distract from.
Don’t blame me.
I was made to disappear.

Just like the things you tried
to hold onto,
but instead, cling onto me—
and I, too, eventually leave.

But parts of me linger.
A nicotine ghost on your tongue,
haunting your attempts to quit me.

I’m just a cigarette, though...
What do I know?