I’m 15 feet away from you, pretending to be watching cartoons; but really I’m watching you. You bring the cigarette up to small, dry mouth and suck in. I just blink, and look away, then look again, your not going to leave that stick till it’s gone. I stare blankly at you, I’ve begged you so many times to stop, and I don’t want you to die. You know the girl at my school, the person holding the gross pig lung said your lungs look like that. All brown and black; she says your dyeing. I’ve begged you to stop, but that cigarette means more then I do. Don’t you see what you’re doing? You’re killing me too. I’m 15 feet away breathing in that smoke. Do you want me to die too? I sit here, on the couch pretending to watch cartoons but really I’m watching you waste your life one breath at a time.

I’m 15 years old now, you know that? You’re still dying, but I’m not. My firefighter, my mom, pulled me out of that. I’m 900 miles away from you now, I’m sitting here on my couch, wondering if I stayed and begged 30 more times if maybe, by chance, you’d stop dying. You call me every once in a while, your voice cracks and you cough a lot. It scares me, because threw it all I know your dying. Just like I did 10 years ago, while I sat on your couch watching you, pretending to be watching cartoons.

I’m 15 and 3 days old, and I can’t get over it. Your going to die on me, you know that? You’re going to leave me. Forever. And who’s going to take your spot?

I’m 17, and it’s my gradation, your not here, you know that?
You’re gone.
All for those sticks that meant more then I ever will.