Could you even comprehend
her life so small, so narrow
that the slightest interaction
swells to fill her whole day—
that thing you said and forgot,
she’ll be playing with herself
over and over again,
letting it bloom for a week.
She hasn’t smoked in a decade. But today she reached for nicotine gum, rolling lazily on her tongue. Something to settle down. Thank God you aren't here. She’d be lighting a cigarette without a second thought—just to occupy her. Not think of what else her mouth and hands can do. She'd slowly kill herself again. Could you even comprehend?
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