July 07, 2004

That Old Black Magic

Cigarettes. I've been thinking about them all day. Because I quit sucessfully a couple of times before (is it successful if you go back at all in your lifetime? Maybe not), the patterened thinking of my addicted mind is familiar to me.

I love cigarettes. I love them. If I had one here in my hand, I would lick it with love. I would sniff and sniff and lick and lick and slobber all over it. Then I'd take another one out and smoke it. I'd inhale deep and hold. Hold my love, my first love at 12, my family, my childhood best friend. Come back to me. I could rely on you. Didn't matter when, who, why--you were there. Always. A block away on a bad day.

That is why I love my friends, cigarettes. That is why at this moment I see no reason, not one single reason, why I should not have one. And then the darkness. You can't. No, you can't have one. Doctor's orders. And Jenna. Remember? Remember? What's wrong with you. You would have had one RIGHT THEN if it were sitting in front of you. Why can't you remember why? Where does it go? How does making sense come to make no sense and not making sense become sensible?

I can't think too good these days. At Group tonight I rambled. The sound of my own voice scared me. It had no idea which way to go without the reliable next step--go out and smoke.

I hate cigarettes. If they loved me like I loved them, those pieces of shit American Spirits, they'd let me go, let me breathe, let me live.

Oh shit. It's not like that, my papered pets. It's not you. It's me. You're sweet and wonderful and make me feel so alive. You taste like candy.

Except that I really hate you, you fucking coffin nails.


[[still clean, -j.]]