Smoking.

"It's just one." I think as I light up the cigarette between my fingertips.

"It's not alot." I think as I pull out the second for today.

"I'm just stressed right now." I tell myself as I inhale the smoke for the third time today.

"Some people smoke more." I mumble, folding the paper between my fingers.

"I've had more yesterday." I think aloud, feeling the smoke fill up my lungs once again.

"I'm not like them over there." I point in my mind, swallowing down the gray again.

"I'm not an addict!" I joke as I take out my lighter.

"Atleast I'm not doing drugs!" I think to myself, while the ash falls onto the ground.

"It's not that bad." I screech as the ashtray fills up to the brim again.

"I could be doing worse." I whisper, stepping on the stumble of tobacco.

"I'm over it!" I motivate myself with a bitter treat in hand.

"I'm not a little child, I can handle this." I know as I roll together the joint.

"This is my way to cope!" I argue back, with the nicotine hitting my lungs for the 13th time today.

And as day and day repeats,

And my lungs get worse and worse.

As my coughs get more screeching than hollow,

And the shaking starts to get worse.

As my teeth turn black and my nails get darker,

I start to realize.

"I think I have a problem." I admit, looking at my yellow teeth in the mirror.

May 6th 2022