daddy likes to dance with the devil

On July 7th you purged yourself in clean air,

promised me a new tomorrow—tomorrow, you will save

yourself.

That night I prayed in the name amen. I used to

paint you godly—or

whatever a young girl’s metaphor for a dad was.

Used to paint you righteous,

but nicotine has a way of craving for sin,

has a way of creating angels out of fathers.

Your job was to put food on the table, but long nights called for bad habits, for

famine in your lungs, starving for the seductive taste of fire,

for the burnt barbecued pieces.

On July 8, I watched you light your pack like candles,

like you were lost without her light. Her sensation ignited

you, burnt your

body up into flames,

slowly,

symphonically,

wrapping

you around her arms,

you hold her,

romantically,

because she wants to grow old with you,

wants to steal you from your lover,

your family,

and dance with you

under street lights that radiate like

multi­colored malignancies.

She refuses to let you leave her,

will always come back for you,

promises eternity.

You cannot live without her.

You will die together.

Nicotine wants to show you Hell,

make it feel a lot like Heaven.

If you could, you would crucify yourself,

bleed out all your sickled sinful yesterdays.

let your body become a church again—

holy.

Reincarnate into a man worthy of forgiveness.

Daddy, I forgive you.

I do not know what it is like to worship your own killer,

do not know what is like to have a gun cocked into your mouth,

Please Daddy,

she is not your savior.

The gun is in your own hands.

Do not pull the trigger.