Cigarettes for breakfast

All you have for breakfast are cigarettes

because there's a weight on your chest that

can't be lifted, supressing your appetite. And your heart

doesn't work the way it should -

every beat out of rhythm like a drunken dancer -

feeling like it could burst with a

great big BANG at any moment. So, you love twice as

hard to make up for it.

I know because I've seen it between the smoky

jokes you throw to camouflage the

knives that cut your skin, painting scars. But you never

lick the wounds, because a

mother's work is never done, and you

never let yourself breathe, always letting the smoke steal the

oxygen from your lungs. Sometimes I think you're the only

person in the world who doesn't like you. You were never one to

quit, on people or tobacco. White coats

recommended it, stern yet concerned, but a

superhero's work is never done - and that's what you are

to us. Always there, armed with a hug and half a heart, loving

unconditionally, as though it's the only food you need. When

vultures circle, you're always there,

wielding words of wisdom;

xyphoid and bold. And even though your heart stopped dancing

years ago, you still have cigarettes for breakfast, waltz with

zest through ours, and make us smile for tea.