Making love to death

It’s not the taste. Its not the smell. It’s the power you gain and lose with every bit of it. It’s an ill habit which we get rid of and then grab back again like a recidivism of joy that kills. We will die anyway. We say.

But smoking is much more than unpleasant smell. Way more.

You pull it out from the box. No matter how you do it you will look confident and supreme.

You put it in your mouth. Squeeze it with your soft lips with a light struggle where your voice trembles a little bit and you feel like everybody is looking at you and the intimacy you’re having with this white wand.

We have a bond now. I own you. Then I bite it. Roughly.

I set you on fire.

The cigarette burns.
We devour each other.
Every breath it spoils eases my senses.
Its dying in my mouth while it makes deadly love to me.
It will die soon.
My gaze narrows while my cigarette trembles between my fingers
Just one more kiss.
Bye.
I killed you.
But it’s not over.
You will send revenge.
And I will fight and win again.
And again.
Until I win all the battles and you throw dirt at my coffin as I put your corpse in dirt.

 

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