My cigarette is a girl.
A thin, wild thing.
She is burning with desire, she is falling apart.
Her heart is flying in the wind.
My cigarette is a lady.
White and nice and clean.
Shutting me up when I don’t want to speak.
Loving me inside and out.
Leaving a mark on my hands and my lungs and my heart.
It’s funny how my cigarette keeps me sane.
By breathing out the smokey death.
How could you ever feel more alive?