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Ara 2d
a stranger points to a smoke sign and asks if i smoke; i say no
now that stranger is a friend and my no is a sometimes
and i wonder if it was a warning when he said that smoking was bad.

had i known, i would have answered the anxiety is worse and the cancer can't really **** me when i already feel dead inside.
instead, i waved him off with a laugh that meant "i know. isn't it obvious?"


the rot caught up to me two years later, outside the same bar where i'd pestered another friend into putting down a box.
it was a betrayal then, when i brought the sick to my lips and inhaled the poison.
it was a betrayal again when he found out.

i tried to appease the scolding,
argue that i've stopped smoking.
would it be a betrayal now to say
"i still think of rot and decay"?
Copyright © 2021 Aranza V. Soto Torres. All rights reserved.
bianca 6d
she held the cigarette between her index finger as if she was pointing towards her next foreseeable victim, but shortly it was blown out, the remaining ashes lit at the end of her tip. her cardamom eyes simmered, square but foundational, a million could love her.
another excerpt from a story I am writing. what do you think?
dorian green May 27
i've been waking up to desaturation all my life.
i don't know why but i've been
rolling over in the same grey-skinned body,
opening shoddy eyes, heart heavy
as a hangover. i climb into your chevy with
it in my hands. i know this is the fifth time i've lit
a cigarette since i quit, but my lungs needed the ash.
did you know, in a car crash, just one person
not wearing a seatbelt would worsen the casualties?
so if you see the casual ease with which i bare my chest,
know that the carnage of my reckless form,
hail in a storm of steel and violence, at least felt sorry.
the starry dark of a backroad, an explosion of light,
a bright metal supernova and colors even my eyes can't doubt;
we'll all find out exactly how heavy my guilt
is when the body sorrow built ascends through the windshield.
nim Apr 22
cigarette ashes
fly on the wind,
as i stare at my black coffee,
it gazes back at me.
black sobranie,
and i debate;
of all the people,
i find it hard to see
is there something
worth seeking.
just like dust,
i let them go
i never looked back
let them think i'm bore.
you may be
a world unseen,
yet i am so tired
no words flow well enough.
i'll just go lose myself
in paint and doubt
while i stare at my coffee,
and flit around.
Riin Lai Apr 8
You are pathology incarnate
The sweat on your brow trick of the light
You were the first female
But you are no woman

Just a beast in the shape of a girl
Plucked one year before ripeness
A major at everything
A minor one way

Your eyes betray your true nature
Sharp, louche and depravity reined
Soot-yellow and one dollar green
Some might call it hazel

I call it dirt against your aryan gold hair
If you offered me fruit
I’d force myself to take a bite
So my soul won’t witness my guts feasted in the gutter

Carnivorously carnival-carved cadaver
Stamped under your cigarette-stained heels
Cherry cola chipped out of chapped lips
Cos I didn’t dare take a chockfull

You’re the first girl who has ever touched me
But I’m just the fly on your fruit
Lilith Haefelin
The girl before Eve.
My city sings like a siren
Its brash tenor, an incision 
Fading into mundane life

My city rises like smoke 
From a freshly lit cigarette
Until the sickness sets in  

My city mourns like a lover
Begging for more time
Before the flame subsides

My city trembles like a sinner
Before a god 
Indifferent to her pain
Grey Mar 21
She spoke
with half-smoked cigarettes
and lilting cursive scribbled over last night’s letter’s return address,
her bags packed with only a backless dress.
Nails dripping black and red
blood and paint indistinguishable
in the darkness of the winding alleyways
zigzagging her heart.
She was truly, unendingly lost
in the mazes of her mind
as she traveled backwards with a string
lazily trailing after broken stilettos.
Yesterday’s rain still dripping from empty window sills
and illuminated by lanterns lit with fireflies
found solace in her silent tears
for they were companions,
cut from the same paper-thin cloth.
Maybe a goddess had worn it once,
but those days were long gone
when she lit it aflame with a cigarette
fresh from her lips.
Desire was never a question —
this she had learned from the fire
overtaking her overflowing mind —
and yet it was soundlessly spoken
on empty bottles
not yet broken and swept up by the sea.
Only the blind man could see her now
just as the deaf girl heard her cries
and thus she remained unanswered.
This, however, she did not mind
for being lost was no longer not a choice.
She had passed the exit of the maze, and yet she did not hesitate to continue on just as she had done the hundred times before.
Cigarettes and coffee and you.

If I had to name three things I couldn't live without,
I guess those would be the things. But it’s not an addiction,
per say. I only like cigarettes when your callused fingers
offer them to me,
your wordless expression showing concern and contentess.
I blow away our pain and worries and pass it on for later,
thinking I’ll make some coffee again today.
For both of us like I usually do.
Coconut milk in yours and creamer in mine, right?

My toes are suddenly cold
I dip them in these tender aqua waters,
juxtaposing itself with the Tampa humidity
that laces my cup. I can't tell if
you resting your arms around my waist
brings a fire within me
or if it gives me chills.
I start swaying to some synonymous tune
that happens to play in both of our heads at this moment,
even though the only music is
the wind whistling
through the shells and stems of the palm leaves.

My lips are, coffee and cigarette and you stained.
The painful heat always disrupts this heavenly time for us.

So we’ll meet here, same time tomorrow.
I wouldn't want to live without it.
Payton Feb 26
Again, I **** the cigarette.
Again, I nurse the liquid fire.
Again, again, again.
I do these things again and
again, for no other reason than this:
It reminds me of him.
This poem was written in 2019.
Jenn Feb 18
she was your wife
she misses you
she doesn't want to just be the smoke from your lungs
escaping into the winter air
but what i fear
is that im the cigarette
that you bring to your lips
then toss out the window
when you're finished.
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