A Bed Made of Spiders

Dead Smoke

   There was a point in time when the smell of smoke reminded me of safety. It was familiar, embedded in my childhood days and engraved in my teenage years. It wasn't about the nicotine, more so about what the scent meant to me. It was mom, it was dad, it was everybody that ever mattered to me. The faded color its smoke manifested was my haven. My 'so called' world.

   Yet, here I am disgusted and revolted by it now. It feels a part of me has died and was reborn. I can't imagine myself enjoying it anymore. All of what cigarettes were to me, has lost its value. It's now a place of discomfort, what was once safety. It's dead to me. 

   Now, the fresh scent of fruit, the lovely smell of my boyfriend's nape and everything beautiful engulfs me in its sweetness. I hadn't been able to notice those scents because of the smoke masking all of it. I had been blind to realise that these smells were more safe and serene than all that tar. What I believed was a place of comfort, was the result of me having coped and gotten used to the gruesome toxicity these people had painted in my life.