In the Perspective of a Cigarette


Smoke tastes better blown from your lungs rather than resting inside.

Ashton Bruce, Staff Writer

My skin is rough, different shades of pale white,

Slender, perfectly fitting the cuffs of his plush mouth,

Pressed between the pillows of his lips as the end of me

Is set aflame, a flash of heat burning over until my skin is

Crisp, falling in ashes to the ground as

He lowers me between his fingers,

His lips forming an ‘o’ as he exhales my insides,

Now disintegrated only into a hazy smoke

That is pushed out into the air and

Pushed into his lungs,

Where the smoke can corrode his organs

As though it were acid,

His lungs dripping and shriveling into themselves.

I am risk, I am suicide.

People choose to let me inside of their lungs

And leave my mark, as though I were

Stubbing myself out inside them,

Like they stub me out

Against concrete.