If you can’t make both my parents
put out the cigarette for good,
then don’t come knocking
with your empty hands and shallow comfort.
I don’t want you,
your sermons,
your therapy talk,
your second-hand empathy.
I’m choking in my own home,
counting the hours
between clouds of stale smoke,
watching the wallpaper yellow
like an old tooth.
You say, “But they have the right to choose.”
I say, “So do I—
the right to breathe,
the right to live without their ashes
settling in my lungs.”
If you can’t pull the poison from their fingers,
then don’t pretend you’re here to save me.
Your rescue plan ends at the door,
while the smoke seeps in through the cracks.
Keep your speeches,
your prayers,
your polite suggestions.
Until you bring them clean air,
I have no use for you.