Your own, personal. . .cigarette.


You chose me, picked me out of the pack, lit me on fire, became addicted to me, held me, couldn’t live without me, fingered me, sucked on me, played with me, enjoyed me, inhaled me; the smell and taste of me lingered on you and you on me.
I was your own personal cigarette.
When you were done with me, you tossed me to the ground and stomped on me.
Then you walked away without any guilt, another one at the ready in your hand , and didn’t care that I was still burning. – RMT  March 2014


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