Lit to Burn

Every cigarette i lit, i burnt.

i am the fire.

i am the flame.

i am the thing it destroys.

the smoke doesn’t rise,

it crawls,

finds the corners of my body and 

it sits there, patient,

breathing with me,

breathing for me.

i don’t cough it out.

i keep it.

like a secret.

like guilt you can’t confess because then you’d have to stop.

Maybe i don’t want to stop.

Each drag is a confession without words.

each spark is the gavel slamming down.

the sentence is slow, 

drawn out over years,

 i have time to feel it,

to understand it,

to agree with it.

to die with it. 

If the smoke decides to slit my throat,

it won’t be tonight,

or tomorrow.

it’ll wait until my voice has turned into dust,

until my chest has learned to ache without a reason.

Until i’ve forgotten what clean air tastes like.

by then it won’t matter—

it won’t be just my lungs.

it’ll be my thoughts,

fogged and frayed.

My will,

thin and brittle.

and when it’s done,

there will be no smoke left to rise.

just the quiet final exhale.