No one hated it when I would announce “I need a cigarette,” more than you.
You hated the way they made me smell. You hated how I would smoke three in a row when I was sad. You hated that something influenced me more than you.
You once said to me, “if I could quit, so can you.” And I tried; I always tried for you. I wanted you to be proud of me.
But now that you’re gone, I love them more. It is as if each cigarette is a “fuck you” to all the times I tried to mold myself into something for your approval. For anyone’s approval.
It turns out I am not made of clay, and I will never be what anyone wants me to be.