by joey friloux
there is no suicide as subtle or sweet
as that of a smoker.
oh, precious nicotine burning with the promise
of cancer and heart failure.
the ultimate conformity.
in life i am different.
in life i'm an outcast doomed by desire for solitude,
and peace,
and quiet.
As a child I dwelt on the curiosity of the afterlife, but
never had the courage to seek it.
Never had the sorrow to dive in, wash
myself on the rocks of nevermore.
So instead, as an adult, this is my little suicide.
puff. puff. puff.
Do I offend or annoy?
Does my halo of arsenic burn
your eyes, fog your senses?
good.
my little suicide is also my little murder.
and you are my victim.
So breath in deep,
while you can.
My peccadillo shall snuff us both out too soon,
and then God will unwrap the cellophane from a fresh box.