Death of Me

This is the last cigarette
I will hold in my hand, between my first two fingers.
Listen to the sound of the lighter. Click!
Light me up, baby. You know you want it.

I take the first long drag from the cigarette
and inhale the smoke into my lungs.
I slowly expel the poison.
I watch as the gray clouds of smoke float toward the atmosphere.

I feel my body begin to demonstrate the ritual effects
reacting to this cigarette just like the one before this and the one before that.
I love the sensation.
 I have to be brutally honest.
I will not give them up.
I want to shoot it through my veins. I want to smoke it through my hole.
I don't ever want to stop smoking this last cigarette.

The trouble with cigarettes, nothing lasts forever.
I don't want to predict how I will die.
I don't need to look into the crystal ball to see
the lines written on my face.
I am out of control.
Addicted to the little white lies.

I am a junkie. I want my cigarettes.
I am a whore, I will sale myself for one more.
Pack me a box of Camel lights.
I am going to smoke and feel.
Tomorrow, I will deal with the death of me.
*****************************************
(This isn't finished and I did not proofread.)
I just have to put it out there because I am struggling again.
I made it through another day without smoking.
I wrote this  piece of shit a few months ago.
I fell off the wagon so many times now.
I don't want to talk about my love/hate relationship with cigarettes.
Day five, just Do It!