six

her

inhale, exhale.

i stand outside

of the library, on the bench

underneath the

NO SMOKING sign,

puffing out the air

from my cigarette.

smoke fills my thoughts

and i wonder what it'd be like

if i faded into a exhale of nothing.

my lungs complain,

but they shut up;

because my patched-up heart

needs this; my only momentary

escape from this cruel, breaking

reality.

when the doctors found the rainbow

bruises, twisted ankle and cracked rib,

they asked if i was okay.

when the therapists sat down and heard

about how he hit me because i didn't wear

his favorite shade of lipstick,

they asked if i was okay.

when i drowned in my mom's tears

of pity and despair; because her daughter

was in love with a man who could've killed her;

she asked if i was okay.

and i told them what they wanted

to hear:

i'm okay.

exhale, inhale.

-

him

i see her, with a stick

of nicotine and tobacco.

she stares out into an empty space,

which brings out the mystery in her face.

"rosemary?" i say, carefully.

she looks at me and nods.

"what are you doing?"

"smoking," she snorts, "what did you think?"

"why?"

"because i need it."

"no, you don't."

"you think so?" her eyes narrow.

"give me this," i take it from her

and stomp my foot over it,

crushing all the harm it'll give.

rosemary darkens,

"what the fuck?"

"don't be mad."

"you took it from me, why?"

"because it's not good for you."

she throws her head back,

and laughs so loud that the

trees tremble the slightest bit.

"south, i'm not good for me.

you going to throw me away, too?"

"no, don't talk like that. you're—"

"i am my poison. i hurt myself.

not everyone's like you. not everyone

loves life."

i take a step towards her,

"rosemary, you hate your life?"

"i don't know, south," she sighs.

i was about to ask if she wanted to

die, but instead, i sit next to her.

"i need to go," she says.

"where?"

"i'll see you in class, maybe."

she leaves.