I breathe

Into the cold air

And the mist from

My mouth forms words

Id never dream of saying

Out loud

And the silence is loud

So loud

That I can’t hear myself breathe

Anymore

But I have tangible evidence

Right in front of me

In form of the mist

Of my rage.

When I was younger I

Imagined and pretended the mist

Was smoke

From cigarettes

Because everybody knows

Cool cats smoke cigarettes

And wear leather

And don’t care

About shit

And or lung cancer.

Now I´m older

And wiser

Yet not too old

Old enough to buy my own

Cigarettes without being

Asked for identification

Young enough to still find it cool

Not to care about shit

And or lung cancer

Or anything.

Sometimes I

Picture my grandma

Who I never knew

Who started smoking

At age twelve

Only to die

Fifty years later

From lung cancer

After living a long life

Of post partum

Depression times five

While her husband worked all

The time

And she didn’t even care for

Her children.

Then I think about

My mother

Who loves me

So very much

About how incredibly

Ungrateful I am

And how she never

Shows any weakness

Or any sorrow

And how she never

Looks through smoke.

Other times I

Just breathe in the cold air

And watch it leave

My lungs

In a mist in a haze

And nicotine

Of memories and unspoken

Anger

And I don’t think about my mom

I don’t remember my grandma

And I feel like

I’m the first girl

Ever to be in pain

Self absorbedly

Self assumingly

Looking at the mist

At the smoke and

Only seeing my own

Made up

Post modern

Pain.

Times five.