Quitter


Day 3

Today is like a cigarette,

Warm and nice, with fluffy clouds like little puffs of cigarette smoke.

The birds chirp like cigarettes, only they’re not on fire.

You call me upstairs, like a cigarette, to show me some work you’ve done–

sadly it’s work that doesn’t cause cancer or increase my metabolism, but jewellery to put on ladies.  I don’t respond correctly,

You yell at me for that, but

Like a cigarette, I’m unimpressed, my filter sucking out the most harmful of your words,

the rest tar and nicotine exhaled slowly.  I return downstairs, to see

The pack of cigarettes, which are like cigarettes, with four cigarettes still left,

I look at them and wonder if there’s any Free Will,

They stare at me disapprovingly like middle-aged English women at the pub, the kind who smoke cigarettes,

and exhale disappointment and dispair.

My patch on, but not a patch on them,  I slink away; a crumpled ten-pack, something halfway between

an addict and a stalling tactic.

It will take thousands of years for my cigarettes to decompose, but I’m losing my composure by the minute.

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