Can You Call This War

My friends seem to wonder when I'll quit smoking, my lover the same. They worry over my longevity as if I wish to stick around longer than necessary.

*

I breathe in the fact that I will never quit until the nicotine has tried their hand at murder. I will allow this corruption to remain the boogieman within the alley of a dark night; The robber of this soul being my own two hands armed only with a gas station lighter.

*

The body refuses intake as if to agree to our silent suicide, swallowing only insults to aid an already fatal flaw. Moldy, torn lungs become harder to utilize when choking up dinner becomes habit. If this body is so keen on throwing us away, why should I fight them?

Instead, let me aid in their war.

Allow these shallow dips where muscles should show be its trenches.

Let lovers die along with me while trying to breech them.

*

Heavy is the head that is hung, a life defeated in the form of a fallen white fag. I have laid down my arms, the lord knows there is no strength to pick them up once more.