I think that maybe
I might start smoking.

It will **** you
they'll say

Lips locked with death.
I draw in the smoke
dancing through black
desperate lungs.

A disgusting habit
they'll tell me.

But they have it all wrong.
It's not a habit.
It's a conscious decision.
A slow suicide.

It will **** you
they will tell me.

The flicking of ashes to the ground.
rubbing out of dying
glowing embers.

That's the point
I'll reply.