It was June. I was tidying up. In constant bouts to erase yesterday's mess. I first saw you in solitude - silent. But your embers drew me. I'd spend countless Jose Rizals just to see your burning coals. No one knew about my addiction. My parents would smell the smoke, but they never saw the fire. They say you're prohibited, illegal even, but I honestly don't care. You were are my addiction, my running engine. One January night, I made a mistake and stopped puffing. The next 365 were hard. At the point when I thought I was finally able to quit you, I puffed smoke again. I know you and the dangers you bring, yet, in all vulnerability, I gave in. No, you don't want me. In fact, you're slowly killing me. Still-- I puff. Then I say, 'this is my last stick', just what I said yesterday, and the day before that.
*No I don't smoke. =) It's an essay inspired by someone I saw smoking under a lamp post and a friend who's been trying to stop.
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