Cigarette.

This is a little short peice I wrote a couple days ago, I am unsure of where to post it.

Anyways, here it is.

I sit and stare at the half-gone cigarette in my hand, watching it burn slowly like the time I waste here on this bench. My bony hand is practically frozen in the position it holds, stiff and pale from the cold and lack of sunlight. The trees around me moan in the breeze, like family members at my funeral watching me slowly die from the inside out here on this bench. The mistakes I've made hover behind my shoulder, just over the chip the size of the world, haunting my every move as I slowly bring up the cancer wrapped in paper, and suck in the fumes through the filter. Halfway through the intake, I take the cigarette away from my mouth and suck in some clean air, mixing it with the deadly poison to further fill my lungs before I let it out; a slow, steady stream of white smoke, rising up and to the side at the mercy of the winds. As I let it out, I try to let my troubles follow the smoke into the air as my head gets lighter, and the throbbing headache fades ever so slightly. Flashes of people's faces fly by in my head, and how I've hurt them or lied to them follow close behind, peircing my head even further and making my headache worse after it gets slightly better. It was like the thoughts were hiding in the back of my head, waiting for me to cure the pain before they stabbed forward to the front, reminding me and taunting me even more. I close my eyes and listen to the wails of the trees, focus on the peace outside more then the mayhem within my pulsing skull. I take another drag of my cigarette, bringing it in and letting it out slow this time, letting it crawl up my face before jumping off and flying away to join the previously exumed smoke. I watch it fly away and wonder why I can't follow, and why I'm stuck here, dormant, hollow, without a purpose. I shift on the bench, and wince from the sudden cold spot on my rear. I take one last long intake and hold it in this time, longer then I usually do, and I bend my neck backwards and meet my eyes with the looming trees above, blow the smoke outwards and upwards with a smile, think of what kind of cruel joke has been played on me by giving me life; obviously they knew I would waste it. I flick the still half-burning cigarette onto the ground and salute the trees jestingly before I stand up and pull my jackets tigher around my thin, stretched out frame. I sigh and chuckle to myself for a reason I still do not know, and walk off to find something else better to do. Surely, there is such thing. Yet seemingly, it never seems worth it.