I’m A Cigarette, And He Is A Chainsmoker

I am sitting here prolonging the last drag.

I am holding onto the smoke in my mouth so long I think I’m going to pass out. I won’t exhale until I have to. Because the last drag means I will have to leave. Or he will leave. Neither ends well for me.

But, here I am, still trying so hard to hold onto the last drag. I know it is the last. I know it is the last time it will touch my lips. Feel my inhale. Exhale. And now it is over. In more ways than one. He won’t remember. He’s a chainsmoker. He does this all the time.

I’m trying to remember the thrill I felt when the endorphins raced through my body. Trying to remember how high it made me feel. I’m grasping for air like it’s my last breath. But it won’t happen. It is gone.

We merely touched lips for a few seconds.

Just a quick relief to the pain and monotony of life. Nothing special out of the pack of nineteen he just smoked before me. He has inhaled and exhaled me all the same.
One drag after the next, the pleasure racing through his system. I am but a drug to him. His fix.

He doesn’t notice how I am slightly more bent than the previous. Wrapped a little more tightly than the next. A little more strong than the last he will finish. He doesn’t notice any of this as my taste leaves his lips and he puts me out.

My heart crushed just the same as he is through tasting my adrenaline in his veins.

I try to tell myself, “Oh my god he needs you so much right now. Your beauty is felt. He needs you. He has to have you. He craves you.” But that is all fleeting. A cigarette can only burn so long before it has to be put out. And once he has me, he is done.

As quickly as the flame that lit me.