cut them open and you’ll find roses,

parsley, oregano, tea leaves, cloves —

a plume of petals, a mock-toxin medley,

ground and rolled and set a-flame

so they can pretend to kill themselves

slowly, softly, with each puff

nothing is real in the movies

except everything — imitable art,

painted in poison that tastes so sweet

let you be tethered to that choice

the way I am tethered to the memory

of sallow face, raspy wheeze,

the way she was tethered to purer air

than most of us will ever need

when you dare to bind a demon,

you don’t leave it unguarded, you don’t

believe its nicotine-riddled promises —

you don’t let it out

if they ever need to cut me open,

there won’t be roses. I will not hide my

danger behind a propped-up facade.

and if I die on a rattling wheeze, know

I did not give up easily. My lungs are

probabilistically clear, and clean, except

for those visits when I sat by her side

as she decided, again, not to quit,

her cloying scent that I recall clear

simply the smoke she held so dear.

Sarah Bricault has a PhD in neurobiology and currently works as a postdoc in that field. Her fascination with the mind and how it processes information often finds itself in her poetry, as do themes related to mental health. Sarah's work can be found in Brown Bag Online, High Shelf Press, The Poeming Pigeon, Beyond Words, Wingless Dreamer, and elsewhere. For more information on Sarah, check out SarahBricault.net.