My lungs are filled with more nicotine
than the average 90 year old pack a day smoker, you see
smoking runs in my family.
And if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that all it takes is a spark,
a spark that always has the best of intentions
a spark that always was meant to help
a spark that’s always to catch a glimpse of the unknown in the dark
and then there’s a flame and an ember and the soft, hollow wheeze of
smoke.
Entering my newborn lungs because of your newborn stress born out of your
newborn wedding dress.
You just wanted to make sure you looked good.
And you should.
But now my lungs are filled with the toxins of
broken hearts taped back together
tragic love stories, more than I can remember
of men, come and gone,
And more men come along,
one’s who like new kinds of smoke
the kind that involve words like
****.
stem.
****.
****.
***.
Or how about illegal?
How about enfeebling an infant to make sure you can pay rent
because you’ve spent every cent of his
child support from your
******
sticky
divorce on
***.
****.
****.
A habit that’s taken over for too long and it’s only a matter of time before I’m…
gone.
Because every time I open my lips to breath. To dispell the smoke, the poison, to exhale, to express, my lips are sown shut with your tapping cigarrete
and gossipping nicotine
and looping heart-broken scene I’ve seen more time’s than I can count
And if this is what you’re about,
Always needing a spark
A flame
A ****
A ****.
Or any other addiction that will never last quite long
Enough, I’ve had enough.
There’s a window to fresh air that I now know you’ll never help me reach
but once I get there my lungs will sing gospels of
Love that stays.
Of drug free days.
Of a mother’s loving embrace that doesn’t involve a wheezing spark.
