The Calm That Eats Me Alive I hold the cigarette like a small, quiet disaster, something I chose, something that never talks back. The first drag burns my lungs in a way that feels honest. Pain doesn't pretend. I know this is hurting me, and that's the strange comfort in it. For a moment, my thoughts slow down. The noise in my head fades, replaced by smoke and breathing. Ruining myself feels easier than hoping for something better. Hope asks me to try. This only asks me to breathe.