Smoke

You smoke too much, he told me.
Oh, dear, I replied, I don't smoke nearly enough.
I lit another cigarette, the tenth since I've arrived (I count them for personal pleasure), and offer him a drag that he takes.
It's only so you won't at least smoke that bit, he said and I laughed.
We waited. The room's full of smoke, that lovely smoke from my cigarette that smelled just so delicious.
I could smoke until they lungs broke into tiny pieces.
When I laugh, it's the laugh of someone a lot older than me, tired from speaking. That's the gift of the smoke.
Please, stop it, he said.
I can't, I told him, there's no way my thirst will be satisfied with so little.
We waited until they came and told us we could leave. I laughed some more and coughed a bit, for effect. Then we left.
She died later that night, but they still told us we could leave.

.

I light one cigarette after another, but only in my mind, because I'm not a smoker and I'll never be. When you talk like this I just want to crush something, but I clench my teeth and hold it in.
I hate being who I am. It's always me who's complaining, like you're the only one who ever wrongs.
But still... I can't help it, not when it hurts. I can't, I'm scared of becoming your punching bag.
So once again I let my voice out, and tell you this and that, maybe cry a little, or at least sob. But we'll get over it, right? It'll stop hurting.
And it's late so you leave, barely saying a word, annoyed at the world.
It's not my fault, is it? Is it? What have I done?
It's not, you say, but you sound as annoyed as you did before, because there's nothing I can do to help when you don't want to be helped.
But will be alright. Yeah? We'll be alright.