It has been a while since I have not taken a puff. Well, that is not true, I did take two drags yesterday afternoon. Just two drags. The nicotine went straight to my head. But it was so hot outside, and my skin has gone really bad, face skin, the one that is exposed to the cigarette smoke, so thus I stopped myself at two drags and took no more. I did want to take a few more, obviously. But the man I was smoking with, I do not know him too well, and from the stories that I have heard of him, he is a serial molester, so I just stood there and took in the second-hand smoke, something is better than nothing eh?
That was yesterday, that was day 6. Today is day 7. I was fine the entire day and then I read something which pierced my heart, and I had tears in my eyes, and then I went to the bathroom and I cried and that is when I thought of smoking. Sigh.
What did I read, you ask? It was a poem about honest love. A man wrote a poem for a woman he loved and he made her sound perfect. What is the big deal about this, you ask? I am having sex with man currently, or I did last week, and many months before that, and he made her sound so perfect. It is all in the past, but it breaks my heart, how we have grown up, broken and cynical, scared and fearful. I want to love him, but I know I can’t. All I can do is conjure up scenarios of a cloudy evening, grey skies, slight wind, me on the rocks by the sea, a cigarette in my hand, all alone.
In response to today Daily Post Prompt