No Bottom in Sight

We used to smoke cigarettes by
the windowsill, sucking the filter
as if the nicotine and tar filling
up our lungs were one of the

only poisons that could nullify
our internal grieving and soften
the blow of persistent social
anxiety. We’d throw the still

flaming butts into a tin can full of
murky water, a black cesspool of
disease, pushing the internal turmoil
further down, the abyss, endless

no bottom in sight.

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