To all smokers
I hate you.

Hm, that's a little broad. I'll clarify.

I don't hate you, I hate the decisions you make. I may not know you as a person, but I do know something about you. You sit at bars or outside on the curve smoking your fifth pack in a week, drinking your beer (or whatever the hell you drink) and itch for another one. You try and ignore the urge to scratch at it but it's always there, always in the back of your mind. And when the itch gets to be too much, you light up. It relaxes you. But it hurts you. The taste buds in your mouth scream at you in rage, for they have nothing to taste anymore. Your lung protest in agony trying to get a breath of fresh air. Mother Earth looks at you, ashamed that you would be hurting her and her people in such a way. You throw your last empty pack on the ground and rummage through your coat for the other pack that you bought with the last of your paycheck. You light up again and the itch is gone. The people next to you glare and cringe at you, you reek of this stuff. The tobacco companies love you for it and put more intoxicating chemicals into their product, telling you it's the better, smoother brand when in fact they just add more rat poison to it in hopes that you keep smoking and pass it on to your children. They don't care about you, you think, them people in their damn mansions, they don't care, but my cigarettes do, they're the only ones...You blow out the last puff of smoke and finish your beer. That's the stuff, you tell yourself, that's just what I needed. I don't need anyone but my itch. But there, behind you, all around you are the people who love you. They love you so much that they'd do anything for you, but you can't do anything for them. They see what you're doing; they see it and try to stop it. But it's useless, you've ignored them. You don't acknowledge their presence. And when you do notice them, it's too late; they've given up on you and gone. But they still love you and would do anything for you. Why would you hurt them? Why would you hurt the ones you love? They cry when they can't be with you, for you prefer something that can calm you and kill you at the same time. Instant gratification, just what the American people want, right? But it doesn't matter how much they love you, because you will only love your one and only itch.

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