I don't smoke, but life hands me a cigarette,
so I take it—inhale, exhale—
waiting for the weight to lift,
but it never does.
So I trade the smoke for fire,
tilt the bottle, let tequila bite,
let it sear its way down,
but the burn doesn't reach the ache.
I close my eyes, imagine water,
cool and quiet, pulling me under.
I want to sink, to let it cradle me,
to feel the weight of the world dissolve.
But somehow, I float.
Somehow, my body clings to the surface,
fighting when I have nothing left to give,
dragging me back to a war no one sees.
I am tired—too tired—
but I get up, I work, I exist,
because the world does not pause,
because bills don't wait for sorrow,
because loneliness does not make a bed softer.
So I wear my smile,
painted and practiced,
like armor, like surrender,
and I keep living
this life that does not feel like mine.