🚬 / February 5, 2019

Everything I own eventually turns out smelling like cigarettes,
and I don’t even smoke.
Twain said easy to quit since he had done it hundreds of times,
but the Greeks called it akrasia, or weakness of will.
Maybe I’m being smoked out by someone looking for a gun that I don’t have,
someone who is lost between screens and mirrors.
But also maybe I do have the smoking gun, recently discharged,
because there is no smoke without a fire.
But also maybe we are the smoking gun.
See how the black cloud engulfs the city and its resident, looming specters,
We have become ghosts of ourselves
We are the ones that go bump in the night.
This burning, this acrid smoke is a brand that we are not masters in our own house,
and the smell is inescapable.