After my grandma died, i started sneaking cigarettes from my dads pack. Sat out back behind the shed, lighting grief on fire just to feel it leave my lungs in pieces. Each inhale was like a permission slip to finally fall apart. Nobody noticed. I was just the quiet one, the moody emotional kid with a lighter and too much time. My mom just stopped cooking- she stopped everything really, turned into a couch ghost- Talking less- ...blinking slower. And my dad started yelling louder, like volume could make up for her vanishing. But emptiness and rage- ...they only breed more pain. I learned this from the silence that follows a slammed door. I began to believe maybe i was born wrong— Fucking wired backwards- Built without the important pieces- ...all of the shit that would keep me strong The ones that allow people feel okay. So i started looking for replacements to make me numb. a sip here- a pill there- Tiny escapes, that stacked up- Like loose bricks ...in a wall that i began building around myself. whispering prayers into the smoke like it could carry them into to the clouds. I’d sit in that backyard, ashtray in hand- But the storm never drenched me in answers Next time theres a storm- i’ll talk to the lightning instead. Hopefully it will hear me and respond with a plan