This Is Why I Quit Smoking

I take a little stick out of my pack with three more left in it in hopes I’d get a little relief from the shit that is my day so far. I put the stick in between my teeth and shove the pack into my back pocket. I light it up.

And on my first drag, I saw your face.

I saw you telling me everything you think every woman would want to hear. You told me it was me you loved and none of the others meant anything. You told me you’d choose me over and over, that you couldn’t be without me. You told me you made a mistake and that you’d never dare hurt me ever again. And maybe you were right because every single word meant everything to me. You’ve probably been so meticulous with what you were to say because that night was your make or break with me. You have already wounded me slightly and you had to make sure you’d still get me.

And you did.

I take another desperate drag, wanting to get your face out of my mind, but instead of blowing away all the memories of you, it’s as if every smoke were making you more and more tangible. It’s as if I can touch you, talk to you, scream at you. I see you, getting closer to me, and you lean towards me and instantly I felt that gentle kiss I’ve always liked. I always felt your love was true and pure with every kiss we had, your lips softly touching mine as it gets more passionate and intense it made me weak.

I see you, taking me to dance with you not needing any music because our hearts were so full it could come up with such a music.

But it was only my heart that was full, because yours turned out to be empty.

I take another drag, and another and another. and for every bit of puffs, I see you telling me what I can and can’t do.

“I care about you so much and I just don’t want you in trouble,” you used to tell me. And I fell for how you justified every moment you told me I wasn’t good enough, that I was lucky you chose me, and that there are a lot of other women out there who’d die to be in my position.

I see you telling all your friends how wild I can be in bed, how you could control me in the palm of your hand and then you’d hold my hand like nothing happened. “I am just really proud of you. I wanna show you off,” and you smile as if that was a compliment I should appreciate.

For every smoke I had from that pack, the same picture flashes before my eyes. Every smoke break I take were the same time I get to recall all the things I knew I didn’t deserve but endured thinking you’d change your ways because you loved me. Every fag I light only brings me to those countless nights I’d cry myself to sleep, asking the universe why it had to happened to me.

Every smoke was me believing you never really loved me.

You only loved the idea of me being so into you. And I won’t ever let myself think whether I did the right thing for leaving you because I know I did.

So I throw away my cigarette half-smoked, together with the pack I still had. I am throwing them all away because I won’t allow myself reminisce something that was never real. I am throwing every smoke because you do not deserve to be remembered. You do not deserve to be in anyone’s memory.

I am never going to smoke again.