Smoke and Home

I was told, I smelled like cigarettes and an antique shop. The one from home that is. Home is a very strange place. I never grew up there, moving from home to home. Home was my family, and the occasional friend that matched the home. Home was the smell of cigarettes on every piece of clothing, even though I never touched one. I scrubbed the orange film off the kitchen curtains, from cigarettes. My throat burned when smoke was blown into my face, my ears poured tears, and I knew I deserved it.