My cigarette looks like a flame slowly dwindling until I give it life again.
My cigarette is a voluntary act. It is a moment of mental weakness-- a singular misjudgment as opposed to physical necessity. It symbolizes a glimmer of hope with facade of assurance. It promises a split second of pain relief, a minute of dizziness, a half hour of an upset stomach, and unmeasurable regret.
My cigarette does better in social situations than I do. Nicotine and ammonia fit my saliva more than our interests ever will. The tobacco leaves rolled tighter than any hand shake. On occasion, it meets more lips than I do.
It fucking hates me, but we have great chemistry.
My cigarette is a bargain. With each inhale gives birth to a new thought while it kills me a little bit inside. I always lose, but it's always there for me. Sometimes you just have to be the bigger man and call it a day. You're welcome, motherfucker.
(Via melissalee.com / mellylee.tumblr.com/; Old photo, obviously)
