The Rites and Wrongs of Passage

The unfriendly paper touches my lips,
Orange, mild danger, encases the tip.
Smoke stings my eyes and sneaks up my nostrils,
I blink fast, furtive glance checking nobody noticed,
While tiny tremors tell tales on my inexpert fingers.
Ready. And. Inhale.
Hot razor blades slice and slide down my throat,
Smoke clogs my brain and cloys to my tongue –
Swallowing hard, I puff through my nose
As two tendrils slowly escape, avoiding the fatal cough.
The fight over, breathing returns to normal
And I glow, like the butt that I pass on to Kate.
All eyes on her.
We wait to see if she has what it takes
To smoke with us outside the school gate.