Carcinogen

He slams it hard against one palm,
trying to pack fibers in a pristine shell
into something
just a little dangerous light flickers
and a flame grows
and smoke billows around his face,
a seemingly satanic grin
with arduous gray oxygen
swelling and settling into
my clothes will forever reek
of musk and dank,
fire and paper, of
smoke pours and puffs,
stinging the air as I take another sip
of my own private
addiction is for the weak,
I quip qith a slight grin,
as he crushes another empty pack
between now peaceful hands and laughs
as I repeat,
the weak replies
There's something a little unwholesome about a carcinogen.