I Quit

The pack whispers promises, a siren's sweet song,

Each stick a salvation, though the truth lingers long.

A morning ritual, a cough that tears my chest,

Hacking up phlegm, a grim reminder, a shadowed bequest.

My breath, a stale ashtray, a bitter incense I hold,

Friends flinch at the odor, a story my coughs unfold.

Stained fingers and yellowed teeth, a grotesque display,

A billboard of warnings I ignore day by day.

The lighter's click, a spark of defiance, a fleeting reprieve,

A momentary comfort, a promise I can't believe.

The smoke curls and dances, a skeletal ballet,

A phantom limb craving, a hunger I can't allay.

The high fades too quickly, replaced by a gnawing need,

A constant companion, a parasitic weed.

Pockets perpetually thin, a slave to the store's bright glow,

Where shelves hold my torment, a cruel, tempting show.

I dream of clean lungs, of air that doesn't sting,

Of a body untainted, of a freedom to sing.

But the grip tightens further, a relentless embrace,

A tyrant I fear, etched upon my pale face.

They say it's a choice, a weakness I can defy,

But the voice in the pack whispers, a haunting lullaby.

Will I ever be stronger? Can I break these chains?

Or will I be tethered, a prisoner in nicotine's rains?