I light the cigarette.
It burns at the end with a familiar orange glow.
I just got into another fight with my girlfriend.
Well, ex-girlfriend.
I knew exactly what I did wrong. But I don't regret it.
No one should have to be punished for being themselves.
The cigarette continues to shorten. It's like the riddle with the candle.
What grows shorter with age? Cigarettes.
They used to help me. But now they are the enemy.
An army of rolled up tobacco and other harmful chemicals.
But you can't kill them with fire without getting caught in the smoke.
The ex-girlfriend is still sending messages. Blaming me.
She's right, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
I tried my hardest. But there's only so much I can do as myself.
I want to be me. It's hard being me but I want to, anyway.
There are things about myself I cannot change.
The cigarette is halfway gone.
Just like the fuck that needed to be given right now.
The fuck that told me to get up again and get back in the fight.
I hated that voice. It was never that easy, but it was also right.
It wasn't about hope. It was about survival. The one instinct I can never be free of.
Which is why I'm still here.
Getting in fights with girlfriends,
Moving from job to job,
Being myself,
Finding new ways to exist,
Because survival is a bitch.
The cigarette is almost gone.
I used to smoke because I wanted to shorten my lifespan. There was no way in hell I wanted to get old.
But now it's an addiction, just like life. Living day to day, seeking the next thrill.
I throw out the cigarette.
