smoke

fell in love with a boy addicted to smoking. one day, he became addicted to me. he quit smoking and started going down on me. turns out, he was never much of a smoker. turns out, he was never much in love with me. he quit me. daddy was a smoker, went down on momma lots. I'm sure he loved her lots, too. maybe it was the smoke; she didn't mind it one bit. the smoke that filled my lungs and attacked my soul. the smoke that I was allergic to. the smoke that had torn us apart. now all I do is smoke cigarettes- sure, it drives my body insane, but it gives my mind release. the release I used to feel when you puffed on a cigarette and blew the smoke into my mouth. the release I used to feel when we roasted marshmallows. the release I used to feel when I could smell the faint scent of nicotine on your shirt. the release I used to feel when I was with you. they used to tell me, “just forget about him,” and I used to always tell them, “but loving him is the only thing I know how to do.” they'd roll their eyes and I'd watch them, remembering how you'd always laugh and roll your eyes to the back of your head. they want me to forget about you, but darling, loving you is the only thing I know how to do. yet this was not the case for you. only thing you know how to do is break hearts and smoke cigarettes. smoke cigarettes and break hearts. I used to ask why you loved me, and you'd always laugh and shrug, take a long drag on your cigarette, breathe out the smoke slowly, and say, “eh, you know,” while dismissing me with your hand. the last time I talked to him was when I visited the graveyard. I announced my hatred for him, and cigarettes, as I flicked the still lit butt onto his tombstone.