I lit it behind the shed
with a match I struck on the tin—
my thumb raw from trying.
The cigarette trembled
between fingers that still knew
Lego and scraped knees.
I didn’t cough.
Didn’t blink.
Just held the burn in
like I was keeping a secret
only smoke could understand.
The dog watched,
head tilted,
like he knew I’d crossed
into something I couldn’t uncross.
By the time Mum called for tea,
my breath was fire and hush,
and I’d decided
not to be a boy anymore.
Ryan Stone
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