Smoke & Confessions

The cigarette trembles between my fingers, its ember whispering truths, I won’t say aloud. Smoke curls like a secret, leaving my body —slow, reluctant, and ashamed. If guilt had a sound, it would be this soft crackle in a room where the light forgets to stay. I tell the air the truth — it listens better than people do. And for a moment, I mistake the smoke for absolution. The room smells like regret and something faintly sweet — maybe memory, maybe mercy. The ashtray is full of unfinished sentences, each one burned down to the bone. I exhale my guilt, but it finds its way back, every time — through my lungs, through my eyes, through the cracks in my voice. Some nights, I wonder if the smoke carries the truth to the sky, or if it just circles back and hangs above my head, waiting for me to confess again. And when the last spark dies, I sit in the quiet, tasting honesty on my tongue — bitter, human, and still not enough. _ngcali writes_