You know I don't have a gun
To point at my own head
But there's other ways to
On the bright of one morning
Be declared dead

As I stare at my reflection
Oblivious to what I see
Because the only problem in my life
Is actually just me

The baggy jeans linger over my legs
And I can't live without cigarettes
The scars on my body
The cuts aren't deep
Maybe just enough to keep me asleep

I need a smoke
Perhaps one day I'll be brave enough
To reach my own home

The need to close my eyes
And shut my naïve mind
from believing those stupid lies

The cloud retreats my mouth
Tomorrow I'm moving south
Or maybe just buy another pack
That's just enough to fulfil my lack

It started with a spark — small,
barely a flicker. But I held it too close,
watched it bloom to flame.
The first inhale burned sweet,
a rush that filled the quiet, scary places

I swore it was control:
a habit lit only when the night begged.
But ash stains linger where fingers rest,
and my breath draws heavy,
pulling me deeper with each drag.

You ghost around me,
a haze I can’t quite clear.
Every exhale feels like surrender,
the scent of you clinging,
etched into my lungs like a vow.

I tell myself I’ll quit tomorrow,
but the pack stays within reach,
and your ember smolders in the dark.

I watch the traffic through cigarette smoke,
That dances with sighs frosted by winter,
Released into the cold, electric air
By strangers standing close, yet all alone.

And through the blurry neon reflections,
Cast on windows adorned with icicles,
Where the colors bleed along frozen panes,
Something that shouldn’t be there caught my eye.

I thought I saw your shape form in the glass,
But ghosts don’t walk beneath the city lights,
Waiting for someone to follow behind
And lead them through forgotten memories.

Yet no one turns as the traffic drones on,
As I leave to light one more cigarette
And walk by the glass where you might have been,
Where my ghost joins yours in the cold window.
©️2025 David Cornetta

We drank coffee and smoked cigarettes as the sun rose.
We spoke in philosophical rhymes, unaware of the passage of time.
I realize now that the love we had is lost.
You reach for me, but I am a phantom. Long ago, I stopped reaching back.
Still, what we had—the raw and unearthly attraction, the bond forged between our two souls—is unlike anything I’ve ever known.
I will be alone until love strikes my heart like it once did.
I want a love that burns me to ash and then resurrects itself from the remnants.
I want a love that bleeds, gives, and never makes me question my worth.
If I can’t have that, I am content with nothing at all.

-Rhia Clay

I remember meeting you outside the party
our friends were wasted in love
looking for a savior with their bodies
You were sitting, singing a melody I recognised
I remember leaving, crying while drinking your last cup
you were smoking while our song was playing
but we didn't even know each other
The lights paralysed my thoughts
and I was drowning in words that refused to leave my mouth
You were laughing in the car with a girl I called pretty
some hours ago, in front of you
before the incident
I remember writing under the constellations,
in a corner where the lenses couldn't approach me
and the purple and blue flashes only touched pieces of the lunar light.
I remember writing a love song about someone I never met and never will
and then you had the guts to ask me for a cigarette
but I gave you a lighter I always carry around
You saw my tears falling down inside your drink
so you decided to drink my soul instead
The girl I called pretty got hypnotised
by the laughs and the screams inside
and suddenly it was just us
and our heartbeats
I remember meeting you outside the party
but you told me you couldn't see your reflection anymore through my eyes
you told me I was just a girl that stole your sanityand filled it with smoke
and then our heartbeats touched
and the incident happened
and I wasted parts of myself in the kiss we exchanged.
I smiled
I smiled and your lips formed a deeply regretful smirk.
I remember meeting you outside my party
wasted on love or greed or foolishness
or was I just high on hope and delusion?
I chose the wrong substances
and now I'm stuck with your regrets
and your cigarette infused breath you let me taste
I ran to change the song to something everyone likes but me and you.
I danced with our memories
and you danced with your chosen loneliness.
I remember it was the best party
I've ever had
I remember admiring how much you were hurting
I remember lying to myself about feeling shame about it
and it was the last chance I had to remembering you
I vaguely have any memories from all the parties you haven't been since then
but I'm throwing one now
and I know you'll remember it
meet me outside the party.

“Everything in moderation,”
Henri’s mom said with a grin,
serving the banal advice
with red Kool-Aid
and unfiltered cigarettes.

I like to smoke
while it's raining outside.
Long cigars with plastic tips
on the end.
I hand pick them
each time I
get em.
Roll them between my fingers
fondling each one
to make sure they're
just
right.

They're perfect for
smoking
during the down pour.
Makes it feel
like I finished rolling
in the hay.

The combination of
smoke
and me
between the water
causes my gears to grind.
Searching the floor for
that lost puzzle piece.

I like that.

Nothing matches that feeling
of rain and smoke
and your mind going.
No, voices in my head
or prescriptions
no love or attention
from a man.
not the income
I make
or **** lingerie
I wear from time to time.

What can hold a candle
to this shower
is
writing.
nothing compares
to it.

keeps the clouds
full,
fat with
dehydrated
water.
Gives the lions
something to lick.
Makes the dirt
rich with mud.

Writing is better than
any therapist,
the best lover
parent
and friend.

That's why you're here
to read this.
That's why I write
hundreds of poems.
You already know too-
how writing is kind
bitter-
salty
or sweet.
I want to end
this one sour

My cigar is out
the cherry hit
a metal chair and
fell to the ground
my naked foot, exposed
burned.
The rain
snuffed out the rest
of the ember.
leaving a black mark.
Just thought you'd
like to know
*******.

A lighter in my hand
Cigarette in the other

My mouth hurts like knives
And my stomach eats at my insides

The tiny stick catches flame
And smoke rises with my pain

I inhale the relief and waste
And whatever else it contains

It’s a tiny minute fire
Like my dying desire

To die in a six foot deep ditch
With nothing but my pack of cigarettes

And a busted overused lighter
I hope it catches my body on fire

When dirt covers my rotting corpse
And flora starts to grow

Don’t put a gravestone over me
For I do not have a name to be known

By the world the life and sun
It can’t get me anymore it can’t make me want to run

I hope flowers grow over my body despite the fumes
Like the smoke and soot that I consume