Stress in my chest

My chest burns from plumes of ash:

My fingers freeze in winter air:

My parted lips fit tightly around a paper roll,

inside, my demise, but I shall never care.

I've too few years to know what I want,

too many ahead to care.

But I'll kill them, too,

just to make things fair.

Some friends tell me put it down,

take it from my mouth, and smash it on the ground.

I only care for those who take up the task, themselves.

Our demise is silently shared.