In Poetry & Prose: A Cigarette

In Poetry & Prose: A Cigarette

August 5, 2018 2 By Stacy Mojica

A Cigarette

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.