A cigarette as a black magic woman
Not so early, they pronounced me a smoker. Why now, when the smoke has been running through me for several years? I don’t know, I’m probably addicted due to their habits, the official carrier of the first vice.
A very ugly feeling from which you run away from reality with the following thought: “I’m not really a smoker, now I can go a month without smoking.” Why only a month? I still don’t doubt my power of will but I think about the battlefield, how difficult really it is to defeat you, and with what?
I do all the legal drugs, but with these other two I keep the distance, we drink coffee or beer and that’s all. I take caffeine only when I feel an insufficient amount of sleep, and alcohol is not lacking and I wouldn’t think of it after countless days of abstinence.
Only a cigarette, a hi-tech temptress approaching and embracing, doesn’t care if I have time and whether I want her. Just like a prostitute. Feeling like home with me, warns me when she needs attention. Jealous of all my ignorance, she calls me louder and stronger as time passes. The compromise is all Greek to her.
Always dressed in a white shirt, you still cannot hide all your blackness. So imposing and slim, you seduce me to start your fire. That smoke of yours, imprinted on my lungs, reminds me of the dirty ritual, gross, filthy little habit. With the excuse of stress relief, I keep being tempted by you.
You annoy me! You give me the envy of you, an obsession. As if I were taking antidepressants, as a medicine I had to have in my pocket, like an asthmatic inhaler, a pendant, or a pet without legs. Besides, you set me the dose and time I’ll spend by dosing, these 5 minutes are all yours.
And every other twin sister of yours is nothing better than you. Just a pale copy, with which I’m out of habit. All of your other partners have the same problem as me. Everyone who can’t deal with boredom and idleness will only then return to you.
Countering your numerous attacks, I keep abandoning my ego. I’m not making a vow to anyone else except you, my uncomfortable vice. Your addictive substance will be continuously less present in me.
I remembered something to show you how nasty you are. You’re even thrown out from the movies, big time. You’re not modern, short-lived life you are, just not my type.
I want away from you, your immorality does not wash. You remind me of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. Girl, you will be alone soon, very soon and all the joy within you dies.