Air

"You've got to be able to breathe - "
grandmother said,
before she could no longer,
the cancer having finally taken hold
of her breathing apparatus,
having filled her lungs with fluid
no matter how many times
the surgeons drained her out.
The day she smoked her last cigarette
was the day I smoked my first;
she,
before entering the emergency room
because she had a heart attack,
and I,
after graduating from high school
because I had never smoked anything.
Theoretically,
some smokes have different effects than others:
one clogs, the other clears,
one cools, another sears,
one cloys, another tears,
but strictly,
smoking is dangerous to your health
and the health of those around you.
These days,
some mornings when I wake,
I cannot breathe so well as I used to,
and while I want to quit smoking,
living simply isn't any kind of motivation,
because I first desired death
when I was ten years old
and my desire has not decreased since that day.
There is no one who needs me.
There is no one who needs me to quit smoking.
There is no one who needs me to keep breathing.
There is no one who needs me to stay alive.
And as the pain increases with each cough,
and as the breath I draw becomes more like knives and fire,
and as I
go on and
have another one
the air tastes increasingly bitter
like poison.