Thick smoke fills the apartment full of roaches, and I imagine it dancing.
I spin under it as it envelops me,
and I so desperately want to become it, easily disappearing in the air.
and I so desperately want to become it, easily disappearing in the air.
In the smoke I’ve made a friend,
One who keeps me company while my mother holds her cigarette in her hands
Every time she smokes, my friend returns,
and I trail after it...as I desperately trail after her.
We danced together, the smoke and I.
Gray clouds that I floated on.
She concentrated on every inhale, every blow,
So I started to flush them down the toilet, hoping that would bring me some attention, but it didn't work.
My friend came back, and I said I was sorry, said my mother loved her more than her daughter’s own folly.
The smoke took a disliking towards me,
and the air made me choke,
and I sucked on my pacifier,
hoping to revoke,
all the memories of our friendship,
as a means to cope.
Until my mom burned her cigarette on my arm...
Sure it was unintentional, a quick lagging in her arm
but I grew resentful and stopped chasing after her.
With me not after her, there was no smoke to comfort me, and I was truly alone.
And when I became 16, I still danced alone, no father to admire how much I had grown.
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