I’ve ceased smoking regularly.
I don’t feel the urge to anymore,
Except on certain occasions
When a mood strikes my fancy
Like how sulfur strikes a match.
I’m still anxious though.
I bite my nails until they’re gone
And then I gnaw my fingers.
As long as my mouth is fixated,
My nerves don’t seem so broken down.
I’ll surely die of a heart attack.
If I’ve quit too late: cancer.
Regardless, my chest constantly hurts
And I keep looking to the sky,
Wondering how many clouds I made.