Men come with Smoke

Once sitting in my not so green balcony,
I asked myself.
Why does every man in my life come with a smoke?

Tobacco stick covered in that soft white paper,
What does it have to do with me?
Am I attracted to the devils on and on?
If it is so,
what made me attached to them since I was born?

When I was a little girl,
wearing a white-pink, pretty knee-length dress
I asked my mother,
What is that thing in papa’s hands?
Is it just like the water bubble stick I play with?
Can I play with it?

She made me go to my room letting my questions unanswered.
A constant plea occurred in that little mind.
With the passage of years, I focused on the big pictures of life.

I wonder if I love my father more for his being or hate him the most for that air that my childhood breathed in.
When my 16-year-old self made a pact to never let that smoke enter my life again,
It was rigid like a cast-iron.

But with the entrance of each male,
I smelled it again.
Be it my brother or best friend.
Be it the man I love or the one I crush upon.
Be it my mentor or a dearest coworker.

Sitting on my not so green balcony,
I ask myself again,
Do all Men come with a Smoke?