I have this friend, he equivocates himself with rusty knives and swallows his sadness like a daily pill.

He picks his smile out from a crowded assortment of various expressions every morning.

He then proceeds to violently iron the parts of his lips curling into a frown.

See, when he dresses himself, he tends to solely wear long sleeves.

He covers the heart that beats on his arms

Hoping nobody will notice his metronome -

That’s just a little bit too slow.

He may not notice,

But his pants are gradually becoming a little loose around the waist –

I don’t know if he knows, but parts of him seem to be rather anorexic at times.

He chews his joy into tiny bits -

He allows his taste buds to sample its flavor

But he can never seem to choke happiness

Down his sore throat.

And

To this day,

I watch him wonder why he doesn’t feel full.

He smokes cigarettes...

A lot.

It’s almost like his lungs have been tricked to believe smoke is their oxygen.

It’s as if the moment the black fog invades the insides of his body, he somehow finds it easier to see.

Maybe I’m too observant –

but I’ve gradually witnessed the flame at the end of his cigarette crawl closer and closer to the filter.

His lips suction-cup the tip of his cig–

So in order to release himself from being stuck to reality, he has to pull harder on the silent but deafening sound of burning tobacco.

With every inhale, I sometimes think of him barging into the residence of death - stealing its belongings and furnishing his organs with its decay.

He physically drags the toxicity from the lit end – Hell, he labors to pull it through the cracks of a locked door and carries it down the narrow stairs to the basement of his self-esteem.

He’s a strong believer of flipping a lucky cigarette immediately upon tearing the plastic off his new pack - after smacking it a few times on his left palm.

He closes his eyes and places his finger on the fate of this new, unwrapped box filled with twenty individually rolled sticks of self-mutilation and turns it upside down. Excitedly, he’ll raise his eyebrows, place a different cigarette between his teeth, pull out a 7/11 lighter and ignite the sweet beginning to a bitter taste.

And after he has endured the burning in his chest and the raspiness in his voice, he tosses the cigarette the moment the filter becomes a bit too warm. He swiftly litters the remains of the short lived friendship through the small crack of a roaring car window.

Upon the departure of the vehicle, the wind violently mugs this filter and drills it harshly into the asphalt. When the show seems to be over, in the rear view mirror, I can watch the fireworks fly from the tiny flames still formed within explode silently as a last declaration of its grand finale.

Looking to the right to explain what he just missed, I could see the flame form from the lighter hidden behind his wind-breaker hand. And just like that, I’d be waiting to hear the window creep down for the next funeral along the interstate.

And my dear friend,

Well,

I’m not sure why – but he has this God awful habit of viewing himself like this bad habit.

He acts like the rivers of sadness that run through his veins are polluted with nicotine -

like the enamel of his teeth are crafted by rat poison.

He acts like his heart is nothing more than a sloppily sculptured slab of tar – as if it only stains and sticks to clean hands.

But doesn’t he know that something like him can’t possibly be disposed of?

Doesn’t he realize that cigarette smoke is not the only thing that can be held within our chests?

Hell, he should know that addiction isn’t a choice – but I’m still choosing him every time.

When I view the gallery of people to invest my time in, I will proudly spend it on him.

And I’m here right now to tell him that upon the inhalation of his presence, I speak for most people when I say that I feel relief.

He doesn’t understand that he’ll never be the mistakes he’s been and although life has a funny way of igniting the beginning to his end – his friends will never let him burn down to the end of his days.

Connor,

I apologize for allowing the words on the tip of my tongue to jump into the keys on this laptop. But I refuse to let you treat your life as a habitual mistake that you live every day.

You couldn’t possibly be a bad habit if me and all of your other friends fail to feel shame every time we are seen accompanied by your presence.

Just promise me that you will start to understand that you cannot be disposed of.

I can’t pull another you from a box and attempt to ignite my interest with the same even burn of a flame.

Nothing and no one can create the feeling you give them.

You are not synthetic – you are raw and real.

And you are worth every second of time spent on you.

I could quit you at any time, but the thought has never crossed my mind - and I know in my heart it never will.