I smoked a cigarette that day.
It was Winter, the concrete layered with frost and the sky dark even though it was midday.
I had begun to feel numb from all the pain, and I thought maybe it would ease me.
It was also the only way I knew how of getting revenge on you for hurting me the way you did.
You smoked, and it seemed to be your escape, so why not mine?
But you used to hate the thought of that thick smoke inside my lungs.
And it was only once I had brought it to my lips and taken the final drag that I realised something.
I realised it as the tar trickled down my throat and my lungs began to bleed with black.
Tears filled my eyes and I shakily tried to breathe out every memory I could feel tangling itself in my chest.
I realised that in trying to hurt you, I would only ever be able to hurt myself,
and stamped out the butt on the floor.
