I am not an ashtray,
but cigarettes are still thrown at me
and my mom still manages to hurt me
with her own burns because
if I am the ashtray than she is the cigarette.

I am not an ashtray,
and yet my mother still throws
all of her ashes onto me,
into me,
and expects me to not be hurt.

I am not an ashtray,
but my words and my body
are covered in ashes
that drown out the sound
of me being anything more.

I am not an ashtray,
but instead I've becoming the ashes
and my mother can keep my urn,
and it's funny how all I can ask is,
what will she think of her little ashtray nightmare?