What most people don't know

is that I picked up smoking because

I needed to breathe.

I am 25 standing outside of a ska club;

my throat doesn't work right, my lungs

feel starved for air. My mind spins,

a carousel falling off the rails.

Enter: the sweet, sharp scent of mint

wrapped in heady smoke that let me

inhale

exhale

be.

I am 29 racing downstairs, stealing time

away from the phones and my desk,

time—just 15 damn minutes—to myself.

A space where I am accountable

for no one else but me.

Here: the comfort of cloves and vanilla

on my tongue, nicotine clearing my head

after which I can

exhale

inhale

be.

I am 35 and I've been told all I need to quit

is will. As if kicking this habit is a matter

of discipline. As if I don’t already understand

that this isn’t good for me. How do I tell them:

I still need help breathing sometimes?

A little nudge to inhale, exhale, breathe.

—N.

04282024