My girl doesn’t like my cigarette mouth
I wrote this late at night on December 26, 2025 after going down an Olivia Gatwood rabbit hole. I have to pull out Life of the Party every December. It is the first thing I’ve written just for the sake of it in months, so I’m immortalizing it here. There are a few minor edits but the essence is untouched. It is unfinished, of course. I frequently remind myself that things don’t always have to be good; I guess we can call this an exercise.
My girl doesn’t like my cigarette mouth.
I reluctantly exhale, never through my nose.
This boy across from me is blackout drunk
and hates Jews. He reminds me of the boy
that made me keep smoking cigarettes—
Lanky build & Delicate morals.
Cigarette smoke billows from my open
mouth. Since I never inhale, I only hold it,
I can pretend to keep a piece of my ex
with me, in me. He is cowardly and cannot
love me, so the aftertaste of Turquoise
American Spirits stains my insides.
He’s more portable this way though. He
never wanted to go on a trip with me, but
now we’ve tasted New York & Italy &
Morocco & Amsterdam. I think the
postcards smell of Marlboro Reds.
My boy doesn’t like my cigarette mouth.
I should have known he wasn’t a real man
when he was too embarrassed to smoke
cigarettes. Instead, he sucked on a
sickly sweet plastic stick—
a Big man with a Pacifier.
