"what is an addiction to you?" they asked, “well” you begin, “an addiction is having a cigarette, and just when you finish it, you feel like you need another one” but what you have yet to sink into are the depths of your imagination that you can’t care to to dwell on, because you’re too busy floating on the surface of your own soul.
You see,
An addiction is having your first taste of the igniting fumes as they dance on your tastebuds, manipulating the fact that no matter how good it may taste, that is what’s going to destroy you. its pushing the pessimism out of the inevitable because you’re fooled into being blind enough to think that this isn’t the thing thats going to **** you. It's the trick it plays when you think the smoke is beautiful as it caresses itself around your touch of naive passion, when the smoke is only the remains of the damage you’ve already faced.
It's a belonging you covetously latch onto in a desperate attempt to find any source of comfort, when you don’t even realise that it's only comforting because you’ve filled it up with everything you hate about yourself, every word you wish you never said, or thing you wish you never did. It's filled with every person you wish you never met and hurt you wish you never faced.
But maybe its the kind of addiction thats filled with everything you love about yourself, every word you wish you did say or thing you did do. Maybe its filled with every person you wish you spoke to, or hurt you wish you had to face. either way, you’ve locked that up so deep down inside of you that you’ve lost the possibility of an easy escape, you have to find something that destroys you to make it reappear, even if it's only a brief reminder. A delicate touch. A gentle wind of scent.  
You see, nothing is ever like your first addiction. You could be skimming pebbles before you realise to shoot stars, but no matter how much bigger or brighter that star may seem, it will never truly give you the same release that skimming that pebble did.
You let your addiction take over your senses because you believe thats the only thing that can give you a sense of comfort. You don't even begin to consider that this addiction is whats burning your withered soul into nothing but a pile of ashes, swept in the wind of humanity and reality. An addiction is living with the reality of rotting flesh and damaged bones; you can’t even stand alone because you’ve let your addiction glue itself with the fear of loneliness to your hand, so you think of nothing other than it being a part of you, an attachment, a parasite ******* the life out of you, whereas all you’ll ever believe is that its ******* the poison out of your pure blood.
An addiction is something you may not even realise you’re addicted to because you haven’t let yourself get hungry enough to lust for it. It's always there. It's destroying you. Even the smell of your addiction gives you a sense of relief that you’re not alone, when in fact the smell is there to remind you that you are trapped in a state of your own mind.
You have chosen to be oblivious to be the flaws it possesses, because at the time nothing can seem better than your first addiction, nothing in this world could beat the smell, the taste and the touch of your first addiction, and you have let that take over your senses to a stage where if that addiction was taken from you, it would hollow out your heart like a pin pricked egg.
No addiction is better for you than your first love.
Did you really think i was talking about the cigarette?

"You deserve every piece of happiness you get” You tell me sincerely, still refusing to see me struggle, silently trying to hold onto reasons to persevere, with *****, broken fingernails that have scraped the surface of too many fears. I do not give you permission to grant me that kind of solicitous when you don’t even know yourself what I deserve, you don’t get to tell me you want me to be happy when you’re doing nothing about this fiery pit of hatred I’ve placed myself in.
You’re stood on the other side of the flames, telling me you would do anything to help me survive, whilst you’ve saved all the water for yourself, and bathed in the thought you truly are reassuring me.
To put your mind at ease.
You don’t get to say that when you’re not trying to re-build my withered bones, or conceal the vulnerable parts of me I haven’t cared to engage.
You’re not trying to make me feel comfortable in the only place thats drowning me, but I can’t escape, and you’re not trying to help me find route, or make a plan.
I don’t deserve this happiness you’re saying I deserve. I deserve no less than the lines of ruby tears I slowly savour with every blade in my restless soul, on my skin of fragile paper. I deserve no less than the held back cries of frustration and anguish that I strain so hard to stop the hurt. Not only the hurt in my heart, but the hurt in my chest, the sharp pain that digs into my lethal organs. The hurt in my throat where I’ve tried so hard to swallow the lump of seething hatred I refrain from spitting out with the rest of my pessimism and indignation. The hurt in my temples as the pounding of my beating heart gets to the point of a thumping rhythm I’m slowly beginning to flow with inside my rattling skull. The hurt in every inch of my weakening body as I curl over with raw shame and resentment towards myself, with no control over the way my body endures to cope in these times where I can think of nothing but taking that blade to the only vein left that screams for help, as it struggles to pump my favourite taste and smell around the rest of my failing body. you don’t tell me to be happy, because I can’t even remember what that infamous word means.