You were a cigarette. And I was a smoker. You were killing me slowly, and I knew you'd be the death of me, but I didn't care. I kept coming back to you — became reliant on you for my happiness. I was addicted to you. Not even the fear of death could stop me from breathing you in. And it wasn't your fault. It was mine. I was the one who did the killing. I was the one who allowed you to enter my lungs and spread to all my vital organs. I let you deteriorate me. And there's no going back. The damage has already been done.
But I have quit smoking, and it’s been nearly impossible. Especially those first few days clean when I just wanted to keep going back to you. I missed you so much. You made me feel so good in the worst kind of way. I know that I feel better now, but it hurts. The sensation perplexes me.
It will get easier as time goes on. I'll still think about you. I'll still be so tempted to crawl back to my old habits. I’ll want to reach out to you — to try it one more time with hopes that this time it will be different. But it won’t be different. I’ll always be the one dependent on you. And one day I’ll be over it. You’ll just be a distant memory like I already am to you. I won't even remember why I was so addicted. I’ll understand that you were so bad for me, and I’ll have no idea why I did that to myself. But I'll do it again. I'll find a new addiction. Because I’m reckless, self-destructive and entranced by trouble. And nothing can stop me from getting pulled in.