melted

seven year olds don't smoke cigarettes

they do, sometimes.

at least, that's what you said as you started the deathmatch between you and your death match.

we walked on the sidewalks - she didn't walk into the middle of the street, although she pouted, she was sixteen - but i was a highway, faster and faster, smoke in my dust.

you didn't stop until we almost got run over, and then you put out your cigarette. somehow, dying is preferable in specific forms, at least in your mind.

the preconceived notion that you are a menace, a danger to society's youth, you are blonde and eighteen, a cigarette in your mouth changes the story infinite amounts.

but when you smile at my blue cotton-breaths and warn me to stay inside your steps, it doesn't feel as if you could be anything but yourself, freshly-dyed hair and a spring in your step.

i didn't want to believe that seven year olds smoked cigarettes, and i still forget from time to time, but now i am thankful, thankful not for the children - as you were - with lit sticks but for the sweetness of a seven year old mentality to turn away from the bitter taste of smoke.