Light Headed Death Sentence

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 07, 2018

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Submitted: June 07, 2018

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Even though I know you are going to be the death of me I still choose you.

The wound you left on the inside of my cheek bleeds every time I suck you in close to me.

I know the wound will only get worse but you are my blasted curse.

My only crutch.

This life that has not given me much to lean on so I go forth with you in spite.  

Sometimes the wound comes and goes but it is always there underneath the surface waiting to turn cancerous.

Waiting to kill the healthy cells that surrounds it.

I keep a quit date in mind.

Something that is not too far away but also something that holds significance, like a birthday.

When that date passes and I still find myself taking a drag of someone else’s stash I make a new date and inhale you even more than normal to get enough of you in my lungs before I finally fully commit to quit.

You are my addiction.

For you I am afflicted.

You have turned me into a beggar.

A coughing old haggard.

I want you when I’m stressed.

I want you after sex.

I want you when I’m happy.

I want you when I’m drunk.

When I’m in lost in conversation and when I’m on the run.

I want you all the time.

Even in the middle of the night.

You are my reason to step outside and look at the stars and wonder what it is all for.

You are also what is going to bring me closer to God, closer to death before my time.

Your chemical traces leave me blind.  

You were there all my life.

I breathed you in from birth.

You were always around.

Your familiar scent both sickened and aroused.

Even long after I’ve forgotten about you and got on with my life you’ve come creeping up inside the corner of my mind whispering “Let me in just this one time I promise that you’ll be alright.”

You say I can afford you in sickness and in health.

I deny this truth even to myself and march up to the till.

I get lectured by the store clerk that you are bad for me but I laugh carelessly and ask “can I have matches too please”.

I walk out of the store unravelling the plastic in a state of panicked madness like my life depended on this disgusting habit.

I am a damaged bandit trying to heal my pain with your false bandage.

This display of insanity is confirmed by my inner emptiness and sadness.  

I pull you out smooth and stout and shove you between my lips.

I flick the stick watching it burn to the very tip and bring it up to my face as it singes the end of your round frame.

I take a long draw blowing out the flame in the same smoke ring trick I’ve been doing since I was a kid.

Headrush.

Fuck.

All that giving up for not.

This is my death sentence and I am a willing participant.

I can’t give you up so I continue this back and forth lifelong struggle between what I enjoy and what I know will destroy me.  

I keep many tokens of you on my porch.

The butt end of you crumpled and crushed filling the air with tar and disgust.

I look at you like I’m above but if I were desperate enough I would still pick you up and smoke what is left of your ash and your dust.


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