You know what the other problem is?

When I am hurt, I feel that this bad thing here is justified. It is my sweet revenge to any attack to my dreams or my inner peace. Every puff is a teardrop or hurtful words not said. Every puff a reminder of my ideas and hopes about living and loving. I am but a fragment of all that I wanted to be when I was small. I am the sad piece left from years of compromise. Compromise. Compromise. I know this cannot be right. But when I smoke, I am reunited with my favorite version of me. The one that got away.

See, as I am posting this, I feel that I deserve to smoke. I don't know. I really don't.