Thirteen,

you get your first offer.

Glance around the room,

into the expectant faces.

The face of your own brother,

finally giving you a chance

to fit in,

to belong.

So you take it,

breathe in the smoke,

no harm done.

It’s just one.

What’s the worst it could do?



Fast forward forty years.

You’re jogging on the treadmill,

wires on your chest,

when you collapse

and black out.

Wake up in a cold, falsely cheerful room,

to an alarm of a steady heart beat.

Your wife stands over you, pain in her eyes,

wrinkles of worry etched onto her forehead,

but all you can think about

is the overwhelming urge

need

for nicotine.



Ten years later,

and you’re in your chair smoking

again.

Your wife and daughter are across the room,

a safe distance away,

repelled

by the cloud of smoke engulfing you;

a wall,

separating the family,

tearing it apart.