I think we resemble an man who's addicted to cigarettes. You being the man, and I being the cigarettes. You used me rather often to sooth yourself when you were stressed or worried. You used me to get away from things and escape for a moment, but after you'd toss me on the ground, and stomp me with your foot, shutting out any flame that was left. So there I laid on the cold concrete at 1 AM, crumbled up and broken. So much that I couldn't be smoked again, but then again...why would anyone want someone's left over cigarette?
