Cigarettes and Playgrounds

We sat on a swing set on a clear night in June as we confessed trivial sins to the pale moonlight. Your cigarette flickered as the nicotine engulfed your lungs - your worst habit. My lip trembled; did I dare speak? Isolating myself from the ones I loved - my detrimental custom. We were silent for hours on end.
“What’s the matter tonight?” He was terse. Rigid. Cautious.
“Just thinking, I suppose. Always thinking.” I was weary. Frail.
“God, what is it that you’re not telling me? Your thoughts, those damn thoughts run marathons in your head and I can tell they’re hurting yo-“
It’s not that bad, I interrupted. Desperately trying to remain unperturbed. Calm.
“Stop saying that s**t! It is that bad, it is really f*****g bad. Don’t you dare try to convince me it’s not!”
My mind whirled like a broken down carnival ride, over-worn and vertiginous. I looked at the face I’d learned to trust, the first hand I’d held, the boy I loved.
“You’re destroying yourself. What could ever drive you to think that you deserve that?”
He put out his cigarette as my eyes welled. I laid my head on his chest.
My alarm clock chimed at a quarter past five as I disregarded the reoccurring dream as though it was a burnt cigarette butt on the edge of a playground.

Reviews

[Paige]

I absolutely love it.