Margaret in her Dark Room

Each time I swallow,
down my gullet
slip more cities and skies.
If I can’t reach toward the sun,
I’ll take it down with me,
its blazing lights no match
for the darkness I’ve prepared.
Once past my teeth and tongue,
the world is nothing more
than secret corridors
leading to even more secret rooms.
It’s countless doors
with prisoners behind each one.
I can roll everything I know and feel
into a cigarette,
and suck it down into me,
and not be surprised
that each brief illumination,
every speck of shine and spit
comes along for the brief ride.
I’m stubbing out the glimmering butts
on the inside of my heart
even now.
My eyes are ashes,
just to prove it to you.