Smokers Are Ugly
Smokers are ugly
as fuck —
not just in face
but in breath,
in lungs,
in the shadows of their teeth.
Ash-stained fingers,
yellowed whispers,
a kiss of poison
on everything they touch.
The smoke curls pretty,
but it lies.
Beneath the haze
is rot,
a slow surrender,
a fading heartbeat
wrapped in tar.
And worse —
they hate every natural smell,
the warmth of human skin,
the salt of honest sweat.
For their bodies
do not breathe life anymore,
do not exhale earth or rain,
but leak only
toxic poison,
the scent of their own undoing.
Ugly isn't skin-deep —
ugly is choosing
to burn yourself
and call it living.