Chain Smoking
The beautiful gray wisps roll along and up my hand as I gently flick the ashes of the already burned tobacco and paper and chemicals into the dirty tray of its dead brethren. I feel the hair tighten at the edge of my scalp as I realize my aggression is getting the best of me and I’m pulling out the hair at the roots. Ashes fall like suicide jumpers splatting on the road below of keys and letters. I blow them to their freedom in the air where they float lethargically like paper in the wind to the similarly soiled faded-blue carpet, and bury the dying cigarette in its grave yard. Resting another cigarette on my lips, I bring the flame in my hand to the end of the smoke-able roll-up of lethal toxins and inhale. One wheezing breath after the next in endeavor to rid myself of all this pestilence thrashing about in the depths of my brain, I attempt to smoke away my rage to the filter. Stamp out, repeat.
