Blowing Smoke

To hold death one breath at a time

I wish I were a smoker.

This is a new urge, One I never had before this summer.

Here’s how I picture it:

I am angry — fuming mad.

So I grab a pack of cigarettes off the kitchen counter, Toss it in my bag between my wallet and my mask, Slide on sunglasses so black they block out my eyes, Grab my keys on the way out,

Slam the door.

I’d drive like one of those self-centered idiots I hate. The ones who tailgate you for no reason, Then rev and speed around you, Metal nearly clipping metal just for kicks.

And laugh.

Because it’s so fucking fun, to play with others’ lives.

Eventually I’d pull over, Park in one of the strip mall parking lots that are nearly full, Which is where the cigarettes come out.

I’d roll down the window. Tap one loose from the pack. Light ’er up.

Kachick — fff — lit.

Deep inhale, as if, these toxins, I just love pulling them into my flesh. Just crave that pain, that sting and sear, Just need it, you know? Just need to breathe in some death. Just need to contain it within me As if I am the larger one. As if my body can hold death one breath at a time.

And choose to force it back out again.

I’m the one at the wheel.

The one who thumbs the lighter, Conjures a spark only to extinguish it.

I’d sit in the driver’s seat with the air conditioning on full blast and the window down, both together, because I can, because why not do whatever we can? One arm dangling out, a cigarette dangling in turn from my fingers. I’d suck the smoke all the way down to my lowest ribs and hold it for a hot second before letting it dribble out past my lips in a lazy, passive seep.

Stare hard Through those dark, mirrored lenses At every person who walks into the stores and salons.

They wouldn’t be able to tell my eyes were on them, But maybe seeing the smoke waft from my window Would make them think about gaseous fluid dynamics And the exchange of lung-air That awaits them indoors.

Maybe.

Here’s my point, maybe, As I flick gray ash onto the public sidewalk And take another drag:

I am so sick-angry-tired of my body feeling like a smoke alarm.

I want my body to be the fire for once.

Look, strangers: see how I’ve committed arson against my own flesh, just to catch your attention. That’s how screamingly desperate I’ve become, cooped up at home going mad while the world burns. While you shop for shoes and get your nails done. Smell my breath curling out toward you. Hear me cough, because in truth I’ve never smoked a full cigarette in my life, so by the time I’m through my chest will burn within me. I’ll close my eyes unseen behind those sunglasses and picture my lungs as sacks of red-hot coals. I’ll exhale acrid stink all over the assholes in the parking lot so that they cannot ignore this, me, my body, cannot ignore what our bodies are doing, cannot ignore the death we’re breathing all over each other when we share those spaces.

Eventually, I would stub out the cigarette And drop the crumpled butt on the sidewalk. Crush the rest of the pack in one sweaty fist-palm And toss that out too. (My first full cigarette, my first spiteful bit of litter.)

Cough once more.

Start my car And rev off into the desert to be alone again.