I did not smoke a pack a day because
I was addicted to nicotine.
I was trying to poison the memory of you.
I wanted it to be as black as the lungs on the pack.
I did not want for it to have a chance to survive.
I wanted it to be the ash I just throw in the garbage.
Knowing us and what we had, the ashes would catch fire
and burn my house down the same way that love burned us.
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I can relate to this poem. The girl I went with for the last three and a half years got me into smoking, and I am two days out from quitting but have a powerful craving this morning. Your words make me realize that it is not right to harm myself just because of my feelings for another person.