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Cigarette
I’m seventeen.
I have not smoked.
I attend my classes regularly.
I still haven’t gotten my permit.
I’m unattainable, and slightly unattractive.
The smoky fumes of the cigarette surround the air;
not from my mouth, but rather my mother’s.
She looks stressed as she puffs in and out the concentrated smoke.
Her forehead frowns beneath a soft smile.
I have not lived her life.
She has not lived mine.
I feel her frustrations now
and worries.
My lips now touch the same burning cigarette.
Copyright ©
Nichole Wright
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