Has filling my lungs with air always been this hard?
Asthma exacerbated with the odor of stale cigarettes hanging heavy in the heat.
I feel like I’m going to puke up my lunch.
Whether it’s because of what you said, or the smell, I’m not sure.
But I’m most definitely going to puke up my lunch.
I say this with a chuckle because it’s supposed to be a joke, but I actually mean it.
There’s always been this romance about chain smoking outside of a coffee shop or some shit, but I just can’t stop thinking about the carcinogens and yellow teeth and foul breath when you kiss me.
In through the nose, out through the mouth is what my therapist told me.
But again, the dingy smell that clings to your clothes when you hold me makes that harder than it should be.
My lungs are squeezed hard by fists clenched too tight.
I’m kicking myself in the shin as I remember “In for five, hold for five, out for five.”
And I’m actually hoping you suffocate on your last puff of nicotine, while I choke from laughing too violently at the morbid irony of it all.
And then we both drop dead on the scorching pavement.
Happily ever after.
Like a fairytale gone sour.
I hope you burn in hell like the butt of your goddamn cancer stick on my forearm.