frogs and heavy lungs.

this lighter weighs heavy in my pocket, makes me
want more, take more, swallow some more nasty ash.
when i was little, all the big people told me (through mouths
of smoke) don't you ever start smoking cigarettes,
baby, because you can't handle it.
everyone's a critic. everyone's a hypocrite.
i light up another, season my mouth with the taste of
tar and wasted chances. the night is cool and damp.
my wrists are small, feeble, the way i am when nobody's around.
sometimes i know i am the difference.
others, i don't matter at all. you don't think i do.

there are frogs dancing in the grass and i know
that though the pond is still, it is full of them. overflowing.
they want out, and so do i.
each one of them ribbets and croaks and pleads that i
stomp them out, fix their home of all the dirty ones,
make it a utopia once again.
what they don't realize is that's what my world has become.
protecting myself from anger and harsh feelings.
that sometimes all i want to do is collapse into a noose.

it's nights like these, my head heavy with nicotine
and maybe something else,
that i cautiously step out into the muddy shoreline, gingerly
scooping up an unwilling frog, and take it home with me.
it's unhappy of course, wailing and flailing at me until
i drop it in my bathtub.
the caked dirt and slime slips off into my once-clear water,
and the weak ones mingle, colonize.
they die later, scared and together.
i know it's my fault.
but that's how the other frogs want it, right?

i left mud on the carpet, so
maybe i deserve the same fate. cleanse.

(un)natural selection. i suppose that's my duty.
take away the ugly ones, the fat ones, the retarded ones.
make the frog world a better place.

after all, they don't all fit in the same pond.