The Penitence Maker 🙂

As housemate B walked along the street,
They noticed something shiny down at their feet—

Oh my!
Unopened cigarettes!

And it was the finest 20-pack,
They’d ever smoked;

Disappointed,
Finishing the last one,
They turned the box hopefully,
Upside down,

Folded, inside,
Was a small piece of Rizla,
And on that Rizla,
A message read—

“SMOKING KILLS
…
So does saying ‘cigarettes’ in the mirror”

—Huh?
Was this new government regulation?
—Make you feel guilty again,
About your addiction?

Housemate B thought no further of it…
Cast the empty packet down onto the ground,

But later that evening, getting ready to go out,
Emboldened by alcohol, they began to wonder…

—They were, by now, familiar with the meme,
Of Candyman provenance,
A thing with zero consequence,

But how many times,
Should one repeat ‘cigarettes’,
Before making acquaintance with,
Their inevitable demise? 😂,

Further emboldened, from further alcohol,
Housemate B looked dead in the mirror—

“Cigarettes”,

Obviously, nothing happened,
And on the fifth time…

“Cigarettes“

…

Nothing! Phew!
Thank f**k for—
I mean…
Well duh!

Housemate B’s mind moved onto other things,
—Have I got time,
For just one more drink?

Yet still, sometimes,
On the occasional quiet night,
The housemate entertained,
That mystery in vain—

“Smoking kills…
So does saying ‘cigarettes’ in the mirror?
—How many times?
—Or is this just a code?”

Over the years,
Almost a decade, even,
They tried the obvious permutations,
Attempting to answer this question—

“Fags, Fags, Fags, Fags, Fags…”,

“Ciggies, ciggies, ciggies, ciggies, ciggies…”,

“Cigarettes in the mirror, Cigarettes in the mirror, Cigarettes in the mirror, Cigarettes in the mirror, Cigarettes in the mirror…”;

These fanciful flights,
Were few and far between,
Yet, the years soon racked up…
And they’d exhausted all ideas,

So housemate B finally put it to rest,
“You’re just being stupid!
—This was always, always,
Just a nonsense obsession!”;

Some more years passed,
Where nothing much happened,
—Just the same old, same old,
Of the daily grind;

Until one day, once more,
In front of a mirror,
They felt it again,
That rising urge…

Like a true obsession,
That’s never really over,
“Just one more time…
I can’t take it anymore!”;

Nerves trembling with anxiety,
The dreaded pull of OCD,
Housemate B,
Allowed one more repetition,
(The 666th, in fact,
—If anybody,
Or anything,
Was counting)…

“Cigarettes”—

Instantly housemate B found themselves unable to breathe,
Housemate B couldn’t hear a thing,
The world had been silenced,
And they were helplessly suffocating,

Housemate B gaped in horror in the mirror,
—All of their orificies,
Were stuffed full with cigarettes,

All of them,

The stale stench of ash suffused their being,
Unable to scream…
Unable to do a damned thing!

Unable to a damned thing as,
It approached from behind…

—The Penitence Maker,
Had just come to say hi 🙂,

Housemate B raised their hands in defense,
But all that happened was…
Their fingers turned to cigarettes;

Housemate B attempted to run,
On dwindling oxygen,
And toes which turned…
—Into even more cigarettes!

Housemate B fell down exhausted,
As the room began to flood,
With a torrent of used, disgusting old cigarettes,

Thoroughly aghast,
About to meet their last,
Housemate B,
Was full of regret,

As a shadow fell over them,
Their skin froze cold,
And they looked up in horror,
At the Penitence Maker…

🌪