SmokeLong Quarterly

Like this, she knew, she would not find comfort. This would not help, not bring sleep, not give her the heavy feeling, not make her eat. Does she vomit today?

Well, perhaps she does? What will she be–picking at her herpes in the corner of her cubicle. What sort of person do they see in her? She took the first tablet two days ago, and started to smoke again, like the therapist said. But like this?

Like this sedated, young, woman-like form with shaking leaves inside, whispering in a foreign language, Japanese chipmunks with excited stiff high up tails scratching her fingernails from the inside—how could she find comfort like this?

She has to move against the air to get up and walk down the aisle. She has to find her arms in the thick cloud around her middle to open the door to the bathroom. This makes her sick and oh—why does she feel so much better with her finger down her throat and in and out are one for this short moment. She opens and hurts—finally relieved a little.

In front of the mirror she washes her hands and can watch herself smile and greet and move around—so slow. She dries her hands with tissue while toilets flush. This does not make sense to her, really, these women here. She walks down again to her corner cubicle and tries to fill the space on her chair while inside her the noise starts again and the scratch and thousand tense strings pull her stiff. God—like this she will not find comfort—with tablets, that only work on the outside.