Yellow stains slowly creep between my index and middle fingers as I try to clear the inner turmoil in my lungs with smoke. My clothes are starting to smell and my leg is starting to shake.
Late night cigarettes taste like regret and nostalgia.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t really hate it but I don’t like it, either. There’s a lot going through my head right now and somehow, smoking helps me clear it out. Every puff is like a thought that I can let go, but it refuses to leave me and rides with the wind up into my nostrils and back into my brain.
It’s a constant back and forth.
A war that I will never win.
I bite my nails and I can smell the burnt tobacco and taste the bitterness of paper. My head feels foggy, like the smoke never really left. I feel my heart start to race and I don’t understand why.
Suddenly, right now, I feel very, very much alone.