You Cannot Save Smokers
by Derya
You cannot save smokers.
They do not want rescue.
Not from you.
Not from breath.
Not from death.
They will not stop.
Not for your tears,
your lungs,
your warnings,
or your wheeze.
They will light another one —
right after coughing.
Right after telling you
they’ve “cut back.”
Right after watching you flinch.
They call it relief.
You call it war.
Only if the world
bans the cigarette forever,
only if the match
is outlawed,
will the smoke thin
and the sky return
to what it was.
Until then:
do not try to save them.
Do not plead.
Do not bargain.
Just run.
Run when you see them
outside a door,
on a bench,
at the edge of your street.
Turn your back
before the wind turns first.
You are not weak for running.
You are strong for wanting to breathe.
Let them choke on what they chose.
But you —
you will live.
And maybe,
maybe they think
it’s already too late.
That the damage is done.
That their lungs are ruined,
so why bother?
They whisper,
“What’s the point now?”
as they light another one.
A ritual of surrender.
A smoke-filled prayer
to a god that never cared.
They cough,
then smile.
They say,
“It keeps me calm.”
But their hands shake
when it’s gone.
You tried to speak.
They didn’t hear.
You tried to care.
They rolled down the window
and exhaled your hope.
And so,
you walk away —
not because you gave up,
but because
you chose
to live.