To see just how far I have come from harm
I just look down at the fading scars of my arm
the burn of the flame has cooled
and showed me what in my psche ruled
for now I’ve been schooled
in emotions
fooled
by illusory oceans
I go through the motions

as spirit shows me what’s right
and guides my poor eyes to sight
It is imperative to fight
to live
with authentic shivs
People cry and ask what gives?

Simple thought ships
neurotransmit APC clips
to be played and looped
with these blips, beeps, and boops
Cylab v2.0
this collective insaenity has brought you a show
for those who don’t know
about life and love
the difference between sharing a laugh or a shove
gazing quietly above and be grateful
not hateful
towards both spirit and shameful
This is a plea to understand the thoughts so disdainful

so let these molecules of thought rearrange you
to reconsider a few memories that stain you
tie die the stain
to transmogrify the pain

learn to laugh
learn to cry
hold your friends close
while you fly high
but most of all
never say good bye, until the day you are ready to die

these are the lessons I’ve learned
and the distance I have covered
on my journey to become
the epitome of a lover.

Tap tap tap*
goes her hand as she
rattles her box of cigs,
packing 'em in before
she hungrily rips off the
cellophane.
Her eyes lustfully stare
at the untouched pack
as she contemplates how it will
taste to put one in her mouth.
Although the Surgeon General
has adequately warned her otherwise,
she slides her fingers around
her chosen poison,
eagerly putting it to her lips.
The lighter clicks, and flames
quickly lap up the tobacco and its
chemical casing.
She inhales, and the raggedy breath
reverberates in her chest,
a sick pleasentness seeping into her veins.
Nothing has ever
felt better, as blood rushes
to her head and her muscles relax.
She lights up one after another
until the pack is gone,
and the cycle begins again;
an inner debate where her head
tells her to leave the addiction behind,
but her heart and body, starting to feel
lonely and withdrawn, insist on another
pack to dull the creeping emptiness.
So back to the corner store she goes,
as he waits behind the counter,
ready to give her another taste of feigned and
unhealthy comfort,
for it's better than being alone,
sober,
and without him.

More than a few years ago
I hid my mind, and have long since
forgotten where I had put it.

I sat on my softpack and I felt
remorseful pity, because
it really crushed my cigarettes.

And I felt such sympathy for them,
so unable to be used.

Then she stood up and held out her
hand, and I gratefully took the
burning smoke from her fingers.

As I exhaled she grew a beautiful blue
halo of twirling, swirling, tinct
smoke rings.

'My death angel,'
thought I.

Then I ashed it too hard
on the brim of
the ashtray.

The front seat is full
of coffin nails, Bic lighters,
and mutilation.

©  Matthew Harlovic

Can I be your cigarette?
so you can pull me out of a dark box
so you can light me up when I'm cold
so you can keep me on your lips
so you can inhale me even though you know how toxic I am
but you don't really care because you love that feeling in your lungs

The mere smell of cigarette smoke triggers something in my brain
I can suddenly feel the kisses you left on my lips
And the places you laid your hands upon sting
I crave your touch
I need it to survive
I'm addicted to you.