Hard Feelings

You smoked cigarettes. I tried to get you to stop, for two years straight. It was like trying to put a house on fire out, desperate and useless.

I never understood why you did it. I told you and told you it killed my father, please, please quit. I never wanted to lose you, too.

You were my cigarette. A cool grey smoke that filled my lungs, for two years straight, suffocating me. I thought you were my cure for anxiety. My cure for the headaches and sadness that would wash over me in waves in the dead of night, the tide rising with each passing hour. My cure for everything. I'd light you with trembling hands, breathe you in, and for a moment, you'd calm me down.

There were plenty of warning signs that you were horrible to my health. I'd cough you out, my lungs and head clearing for a moment, to see behind your bullshit. But, I'd take another drag, because I was desperate for you to be my cure.

Quitting cold turkey has never been good for anyone, with anything. You left me reeling one summer day. I had filled my lungs with too much smoke, but you were the one who decided it was enough.

You quit me, and left my head spinning. How could you go out on me like that? Sizzle out in my hands, with no warning signs?

But when the smoke cleared finally from my aching body, I had realized you were never the one to fix me. You did more damage than whatever good I had felt you did. You never cleared my anxiety or my shakes. You made them worse, and made me feel awful for being the way I was.

For the first time in two years, I can breathe with clarity. Nothing is shrouded in your horrible grey smoke anymore. My clothes don't reek of regret. My chest feels lighter. You're just ashes on the floor.