I ignite the lighter.
I hear the crackling at the end of the cigarette.
I can see the smoke that fills my lungs.
I can feel the third abundance of nicotine soaring through my veins.
I feel a bit dizzy.
But I would rather that,
Then the itching of the steal.
I’ve been clean for months.
Even though the scars still haunt me.
They are a reminder of my feelings,
And my moments of weakness.
But it’s addictive.
And now I’m covered.
I can see in their eyes the pain that comes with looking at them.
They thinks it’s there fault.
They could have stopped me.
Or at least been there.
But they can’t help,
Unless I reach out.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
I am sorry for everything I have put them through.
The days they bang on my door.
Hoping I have not ended it.
But I always answer.
Because I will never put them through that.
I don’t want them to get there nice cloths filthy.
From the dirt they would have to through in the hole dug for me.
I will be okay eventually,
Once I leave this town.
They will sleep with ease,
Knowing I’m doing the same thing.