Iron and Smoke
She said she had iron deficiency.
Said it like a whisper
waiting to be pitied.
“It’s genetic,”
“It’s hormonal,”
“It’s always been this way.”
But her fingers
smelled like ash.
And her breath
was always borrowed.
She smoked
like oxygen was an inconvenience.
Lit her way through the morning
one cigarette at a time.
Walking up the stairs
was hell for her.
Every step
a negotiation
between her lungs
and the damage she denied.
She said,
“I’m just weak.”
But strength doesn't flee your body—
you chase it off
with smoke.
She swallowed pills,
chased iron through her blood
like it was hiding,
while her breath
turned to rust.
I watched her cough
halfway up
and light one
at the top.
The real deficiency
was never iron.
It was surrender.
And she never gave that up.