I roll my own cigarettes,
I know I shouldn’t
but surely cancer couldn’t
fail to respect
the debt
I already owe my body?
I roll my own cigarettes,
an art-form that will not conform,
such careful precision,
wasted,
but gratefully tasted,
my yellowed fingers,
a disgrace I face,
yet will not defend my position.
I pretend it is pasted,
paint, not a taint,
my vice, my decision,
but I, unruly,
truly… do not care.
I am prepared.
I roll my own cigarettes,
often in advance,
ready for the chance
to advance my pleasure,
I work at my leisure,
I roll my own cigarettes.
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