she was my nicotine.

she was black boots and reading shawls. she was wispy tied back hairs and thick black eyelashes and too much sugar in her tea. she was a beautiful singer. she was a high, tinkling laugh smashing into tiny pieces. that slinky violet dress, that soft green coat. that dinner she made that was burnt but she tried and it was my favourite meal that i never got to eat. she was blue skies and klondike picnics in the park. punk shows and poetry slams and coming in late but never missing the best part. the clean flannel sheets we stretched between when we were tired, her cold feet pressed up against my calves. she was good nature, money for the boy scouts and their apples and charity. always daffodils for the cancer society every spring in tiny bouquets all over her room for hope. she bought so many that she thought she might prolong the season by freezing bouquets, but they just became freezer burned and soggy when she took them out. she was good conversation and slight manipulation. she was a good time on saturdays with her fine wine and hand in mine until she became a nightmare on sunday. she was a gossip after we left, dissecting the boys after the party. she was a pain in the vein, the blots and bruises mostly invisible. she was a good dancer until the other boys asked her. she was loyal until she grew bored. she was running in the dark high on sugary life, smiling with teeth showing in the wind until you got so cold that you had to shut your mouth, shut her mouth because it's too cold for teeth outside. she was beautiful in that dress while she kissed him for that joke. she was beautiful even if she was obsessed with beauty. mascara streaked anger and sudden storming. seven layers of dishes cocooning the sink. that cake she made and then stuffed out her cigarettes in when she heard the news. that vindictive laughter she used for show. she was fantastic but she was bad for the lungs