There isn’t a day where I stop and think why I smoke and damage my body with the impurity of chemicals that wind down my life.
I have read the warning label informing you
it’s hazardous and potentially fatal,
but what I have come to realize Is that I don’t smoke because I fear death but because I am full of damaging psychological pathogens that lurk in the hollow bits of my bones that poison me with
anxiety,
fear,
love,
and the inability to handle myself around you.
What they don’t warn you about in those labels is the fact that one day you’ll meet a girl with the same afflictions as the nicotine inside tobacco based products,
where you have to get your fair dosage or your hands shake violently like hurricanes and tsunamis. You crave her touch every day the way the grass craves the sunlight. She becomes the addiction that wakes you at 5 a.m. With the urge to touch her body the way your fingers hold ciggerette in between ******* in perfect harmony.
But how I wish I could have you now than these pathetic sticks of cancerous effects, where your effects ****** my mind with touch and words, your breath in my lungs.
I dislike how I’m still here smoking,
wondering why it isn’t you that I still inhale,
whom I crave every morning before dusk.
And then I realize,
I broke the habit,
and I’m no longer addicted to the serene smell
your skin,
or the touch,
wetness of your lips,
or perhaps the way you said my name.
Until today, I feel like I have to have you inside my bloodstream,
but relapsing would take me back to those times where I wished I had you, and you weren’t around.
I want you around.
Please be my addiction again.
