Celina

Smoky, hazy smoky room. Smoke from incense "made in India". Smoke from fresh lies burning through my dialogue. David smoking outside on a break, Nicole smoking while driving to Pataskala, Yaeji smoking during a walk though my neighborhood begging me to let her smoke begging for smoke smoke to smother young lungs. Smoke from chimneys; how I wish we had a fireplace. Acrid smoke from burnt sugar clinging to the oven. Smokin' hot men, smokin' hot women, Zach saying Vanessa Hudgens is smokin'' hot back in eighth grade, and jealousy burned me up, smoke drifting out from my ears. Nonexistant smoke, smoke that never happened because I threw Dad's cigarettes over the balcony; partially to spite him partially to spite the hot, smoking city. Smoke from the burned-black towel in the microwave, a result of ten-year-old vanity. Smoke from my hair crisping under a straightner, a result of lifelong vanity. Wispy smoke curls drifting from the tip of an insence stick. Smoke fills my little room quickly, it blurs the light it blurs reality. Inhale, exhale perfumed soapy slippery sweet smoke.