smoke, mirrors, light

i learned how to light matches last summer
(flip the cardboard flap around, squeeze, pull hard)

i learned to smoke awkwardly, barely inhaling, because
i was still afraid of cancerous throats and fluid-
filled lungs (had never contemplated
swimming in one) and when i ran out of cigarettes
i just lit matches,
sometimes letting them go out in the sink,
sometimes letting them go out on my skin

and sometime when the summer ended i stopped
writing about dark (blood, heartbeats, twisted stitches) and
started writing about light (angels, sugar, broken glass)

i still don’t see any.

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