cigarettes

i hate that i started smoking. i remember countless arguments when i rebuked him for something that i found vile. but i started smoking little peach cigarellos - before they became illegal to sell - when i worked a very draining job a couple of years ago. to take a break to smoke was tantamount to a seven minute slice of heaven, a moment of escape and solitude. i began to crave the high, the lightness, the shortness of breath, the dizzying feeling of love that can only come from a small stack of paper and chemicals. i longed for those minutes we would spend talking outside, bonding over a mutual destruction of our insides. now it just reminds me of my loneliness. it makes me feel hot with sadness and regret. it tastes like defeat on my tongue, and my heartbeat quickens from nicotine, but i imagine it’s because of my hate for myself.

i’m looking out at the moon in the midday sky, wishing i could go there. i should be alone. i won’t hurt anyone anymore that way. i’m looking out at the apartment complexes spread out around me, thinking they are all houses but none of them can ever be my home.

i’m smoking camels and i’m torn into pieces over how i want to be reminded of him but i don’t deserve to share in anything that was his.