i'm waiting so

Kyla Mayoree

i roll a shitty cigarette under a bus stop because it’s raining

i don’t need to smoke, i was told i needed to quit

but i’m waiting so why not?

i say excuse me to the woman next to me who just lit hers

i’d given my lighter to my friend earlier

so that i wouldn’t smoke but

i’m waiting so why not?

the cigarette loses its fire so i blow to reignite it

it burns my throat and tastes terrible

but it works

and i’m waiting, so why not?

as the bus pulls off and i’m sitting on the bench

just smoking

reigniting it reminds me of me

i take out my phone to write

to reignite something in me

and i’m waiting, so why not?

i wish i had my notebook

i feel like my words are more honest that way

when i write it gives me time to think

to ponder my words as i scribble them into my notebook

but i left it at home by my bed so i can write when the night takes forever to end

when the sun is sleeping and i should be too

so i yearn for my notebook but type away in my notes app instead

and i’m waiting, so why not?

this time the cigarette doesn’t revive when i blow on it

i see another woman rolling a cigarette so maybe i’ll ask to use her lighter

but i shouldn’t be smoking

i promised i wouldn’t

so i’ll just hold on to it for now

i wonder if my life is like this cigarette

it reignites and sometimes it dies with no means to revive the flame

when the words i ponder don’t flow on my empty pages

but it always comes back

by pulling gross smoke in to relight it

it seems the only way i can relight it is by burning the back of my throat

my poetry is my sadness and my sadness is my poetry

what a shame it is that i can’t use my words in floods of happiness

only in droughts,

i feel like my talent is wasted on repeating the grief that surrounds my life

if you can call crying on my notebook when the monsters play talent

i look around to borrow a mechero but the woman left

and i have no means to light the half a cigarette bent in between my fingers as i write this poem

but i can’t help but think about the possibility that one day i won’t be able to relight my cigarette

Nor my life

i’m happiest when i write my thoughts and weave my stream of consciousness into poems

but it’s also when i most feel like giving up

my best work comes from the days i weep on the metro

adjusting my mask so that the tears soak into the fabric instead of my cheeks

as to not concern the woman and her grandson going over his elementary school homework on

line 3

and i’ve written a lot of great poems this week

some of my best work

and it only comes in the days i feel most like giving up

but my friend is coming to get me from the bus stop soon

i look around one last time for the possibility of a lighter

and i know i should stop smoking

but i’m waiting so why not?