Cigarettes

I run my thumb over the wheel of the lighter, catching the nearly unnoticeable notches of my fingerprint in the silver ridges. The cigarette dangles from between my dry lips. Unlit menthol toxins flirt with my olfactory bulb, flipping the switch like a light. I can feel the tip becoming soggy. Light me, it dares.

So I do.

Cli— click, whoosh.

The orange cherry bursts to life. I inhale deeply, letting the familiar chemicals fill the empty spaces inside of me. A gentle burn trails down my throat. I imagine the smoke swirling within my corrupted lungs, adding to the thick charcoal wall that cases them. I release my head, shut eyes to the sky that I envision above me. Darkness. Soft glow of the city not so far away. Sirens. Car horns.

Exhale.

I remember my days as a young girl in the midwest. A night like this would be captured in a different light. No light. Just the stars that shine from a million miles away and a single street lamp . The rattle of unknown creatures scampering in the brush. Cicadas humming a tune to the heavy summer air. Crickets and frogs chirping back and forth, communicating a language that humans have assumed onto them. Fireflies dancing in the distance. Dew accumulating in the soft, lush grass. A light breeze awakening a tired soul.

I lift the cigarette to my cracked lips.

Inhale.

Something brushes up against me and catches me off guard. I snap my head to the left— it’s a young man hurrying down the fire escape. Relief floods over me. I nervously look around. The metal of the stairs digs into my tender skin and I quickly wonder why it’s even worth it to crawl out of my window for five minutes of vulnerability for a cigarette.

Exhale.

Flick.

The ash tumbles down half of a flight, falling through the holes in the stairs, barely catching the stranger I just encountered. My body shudders at the thought of him. Silent, fleeting. A tear stripes my cheek with wetness. I wipe it away with my tattered sleeve.

Inhale.

The almighty tobacco buzz creeps to my head now, numbing my brain. Don’t think so hard, the smoke echoes in my mind. The tears continue. I glance downward and see the man from the stairs hit the pavement. A girl runs up to his side, a graceful collision, and he holds her almost as if he thought that he might never get to do so again.

It must be nice to live in a relationship without fear. To not have a constant shadow of the past lurking around every corner, waiting to jump out at you with teeth bared, snarling. Look at me, it demands.

Exhale.

I watch the smoke roll over itself in the glow of the street lamps until it is just another piece of the negative space. I notice that I’m shaking, I slam my sweaty palm to my forehead.

I have always hated the term “fucking”. It sounds dirty, emotionless. Even when there is no love present there are still feelings— although I’ve only ever experienced displeasure and disconnect.

Even through the hatred and animosity I have towards the men that use me, I continue to make broken love to them. Giving myself away like a box of free kittens. One after another, I tell myself that I don’t deserve this. But it’s hard to keep that mentality. After all this time I have just become so desensitized to it all. I’m like a puppet being controlled by the terrors of my past.

Inhale.

Short exhale.

Inhale.

Any shrink would categorize me quicker than I could get the first sentence out. They would open to the “Managing Sexually Abused Patients” chapter of the diagnosis manual and spit out text book explanations as to why I have these “symptoms” of self loathing feelings, why I sleep with any man that shows interest, why I can’t find security within myself. Then they would use their ball point pen to write me off a prescription that is just as slimy as their morals. Pills. Pills are the answer.

Exhale.

Flick.

Inhale.

I bounce my legs fast. I look down at my stained hightop sneakers. A little piece of ash sits upon the rubber toe.

There is no chance of me finding someone who can put me back together, I’ve been knocked off of the wall far too many times. It’s a miracle there are still pieces of me at all. Shattered glass still sparkles, but if you get too close you’ll bleed.

Exhale.

I smash the fragile cigarette to the dull brick wall, kick the ash from my shoe, and climb back through the window of my apartment praying for the strength to make it through just one more day.