Cars fly by and the news taps into city conversations.
Suburban neighborhoods appear quiet but inside the homes, they're quite defiant.
The sun sets and leaves her cold, she sits on her Brooklyn, more like Crooklyn, apartment building stoop.

She rolls an L, lights it, and follows those actions with an inhale.
The cloud of smoke released a smell, overcome her perfume, and became her new.
Her eyes dilate.
Her comprehension constricts.
Her addiction becomes glue and like all, it sticks.
It sticks as the residue on her lips.
Blackened.

Overcome with a sense of helplessness, hopelessness, and stress.
This drug is only a temporary stimulant and she believes in contains no risk.
All anger and pain expressed when she chants-
"fuck this, fuck life, this shit is a hit or a miss."
"Dad hit, mom missed, and now I'm stuck, it ends just like this."
Mind spinning.
And on her thoughts she no longer dwells.
The process can't be reversed so why not take another puff.
Unwilling to own up to her mistakes, she finds ways to bring error to the truth.
Truth.
Her truth.
Or shall we say lack of truth.
The wrong has been done and can't be transformed into right.
Her conscience is telling her to take another toke and leave the weed alone but her right mind,
the one floating above in one of her exhaled clouds,
says fuck it.
She puts out the roach, and lights a brand new L.