White Walls & Cigarettes

I was twelve years old when the fourth member of my family died from a smoking 

induced cancer.

I can remember the pain in my heart as I screamed foul at God for my poor

grandmother,

I wondered how long I pretended the pain was in my heart and not in my lungs.

I was  thirteen when I watched my six year old pitbull fight a battle that she

did not deserve.

I used to believe that the brown hue on my white walls was her ebony fur banked

in them.

I wondered how long after she died did I realize the fawn on the walls became

so heavy it started to drip.

I was fourteen when my cat became so tired she could not even whimper in pain.

For six days she hid, afraid, behind the brown-tinted curtains until she was no

longer wincing at every noise in the house.

I wondered how long until it was my turn.

Grandfather,

my body is a bank of pounds of nicotine residing in my lungs.

The walls are peeling before us, can you not see?

Your sweet cigarettes are destroying all you love,

and so I ask

do you not feel pain?

You couldn't understand why I could not run one lap around the track.

You told me I was young and fit-

That I should get out more, when all the while you are trapping me in and

endless loop of  wanting to leave, but my exasperated heaving will always stop me

and bring me back to this smoking hole.

Pop Pop,

my lungs are heavy with second hand smoke.

It's like I am dragging an anchor with every adventure I try to make.

Your emphysema is miniscule to the emptiness I feel in my heart.

I wondered how long I'd pretended it was heartburn.

Next month the flowers will grow and spring will be welcomed with a viable

April,

and the walls in my house will look more like an un-mopped cafeteria floor.

Next month I will turn 16 and I will pray that the white tulips that grow in my yard

are not for another funeral.

I wonder how long before I am wrong again.