Dear Tobacco,

I've been thinking about what it might feel like to be addicted to you.

I can imagine the conversation in my head about how I would want to quit you, and reasons to belittle myself at the same time. I might feel that smoking, and continuing to smoke, was a sign of selfishness. So then because with addiction comes the power to self impose a guilt trip and yet still not be able to kick you, and then starts the pattern of self hatred.

I might feel weak, easy, victimized, powerless, and full of shame while still continuing to crawl back into your bed. I might feel angry at myself, angry at you, angry at your pimps and their pyramid of power. Perhaps I would want to rid myself of your touch, but find it too easy to slip back into your arms. I might cry at how much you'd made me feel like I'd sold my soul to you.

And if I were to then be rid of you, I might grieve that perfect moment where you filled my blood with calm and my lungs with a warm coating of your drug. I might want with all my soul to bring you back into my body, but know that to do so would only be a sign that I was still that person I hated that loved you so. Perhaps I'd avoid you so I could finally be proud of me.

I can't really claim to know your addiction since I did little more than flirt with you in high school, but sometimes I wonder if the only reason I haven't fallen into your arms is because my body rejects you despite what my mind might let me do.

You're the one in bed with so many - tell me, what do they say to you when you decide to reward their slavery with nothing but the need for more of you?