*“The Smoke That Makes Her Dance”*
She is my dancer. Not the one that moves across floors— but the one within me who has never stopped moving.
She learned rhythm before breath, learned to pulse before I ever knew pain. Every contraction a plié, every rush of blood a spin,
and I have loved her fiercely for every movement she made in the dark.
She speaks to me in murmurs, her valves whispering secrets only I can hear through a stethoscope’s hush— not just beats, but actual words.
She tells me she’s alive. She tells me to listen. Her voice is the sound of pure life, blood pulsing forward with purpose, pushing the rich, potent nicotine through every capillary of my being.
I feed her cigarettes like applause. The heat of thick rich smoke, slides down my windpipe, tar-laden and velvet-hot, like memory turned physical.
Smoke fills the cathedral of my lungs, settling into the spongy organs already soaked with the residue of past puffs.
Tar. Not ink, but archive. The black chronicle of my life.
She dances harder now— not for art, but to survive.
The smoke excites her even as it steals the very breath that lifts her.
I feel her fury under my breast: ecstatic, reckless, breaking.
The beautiful little muscle, a living pump, who has given me billions of beats despite my betrayals.
She thunders when I pause— when I inhale and everything stills,
And she slams against her cage like a ballerina against time,
Compensating, screaming, surviving, only because I need her to.
And yet—she adores the ritual. Loves the fire and fog I give her.
She speaks louder nestled into the smoke, between the lungs, as if the battle awakens her.
A duet of harm and holiness. My blackened lungs swell with the remnants of past ceremony.
These tars are tattoos. The smoke is my incense, and she, my priestess, still dances.
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