In Poetry & Prose: A CigaretteAugust 5, 2018
I am a slave to your
silicone cinders of compressed pomp
of awkward moments rolling by
the carriage of innocence that no one caught.
I am a slave to your proud embarrassment funneled into deceptive paper cones that we are damned to disregard.
I am a slave to your beautiful danger, your smoky sex appeal—IT—like Belladonna in a ﬂapper girl’s eyes.
I am a slave to you for so many whys that I can’t remember how when all of us started all of us failed to quit.
I thought a delicious mistake could decidedly not be mistaken when an inch of my lifeline – oﬀ deluded, maybe – never forsaken!
When I wake up I forget that I am not free but the chains tighten around my chest squeezing my freedom down the funnel of your paper cone.
It was “as natural as breathing” until the girl who’s voice lived in your cage for a decadent decade decayed and turned into a guy.
The ﬁerce camaraderie we felt waivered on the ephemeron ember at the end.