that's it again
the artistry of the curling hell
the mark of what was destroyed
and for some reason used as a metaphor for life
I look in the mirror and I see long, lean, noble
like a greek god, or goddess, someone gender ambiguous
with hair framing my face and jawlines ever reaching up
my body is beautiful and I shouldn't destroy it
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
like whitman,
there is this strange dark attraction to
standing somewhere leaning against the wall
with my hood up as I watch the stars become clouded
and that warm friendly scent fills my clothes where no one wants to go
it's like a forest, a forest of embraces and thistles
something tragic and suave and slenderly beautiful
the workers in the yard light up daily
just like my sister when she's hanging out
always happy
or my grandfather on his patio with the parrot on his shoulder.
he lets her drink coffee sometimes,
and lets me drink in the air of his breath mingled with ash always.
I am the rolled tobacco, just ready to be lit, inhaled, and blown away
flammable, quick to go,
filtered, my body a slim cylinder,
the heat at the end catching the eye of children
I want to be united with that which I personify,
unhealthy, but **** cool looking.
It wouldn't surprise anyone-
where there's smoke, there's fire, they say;
maybe that's why I've always wanted a cigarette.