Cellophane

By Jake Price

The only time I smoke cigarettes is when I’m homesick.

Why does cancer smell so comforting?

You left us when I was eight years old.

My mom filled your absence in my chest with secondhand smoke.

Inhaling and exhaling death as a pastime.

My alarm clock was her smacking cellophane.

She rebounded from your betrayal with Newports.

Now her goodbye kisses taste like menthol.

I want to apologize for stealing cigarettes from her purse when I was thirteen.

I just really missed you.