Wisps of smoke evanesce into the dark night sky.
She looks down at the glow between her fingers and catches herself doing something she never thought she'd do. She's not a smoker, but she's well on the way to becoming one. The pattern has been set over the past days: Come home, light up, relax.
Something about stimulants gives her release, or perhaps it's just the comfort of self-destruction. It's always been in her nature, like somehow catching that downward spiral might eventually hurl her forward or upward.
Well... Once you've hit rock bottom there's nowhere left to go but up.
It's funny how some conversations can never be unhad, the words burning themselves into your brain, digging up old wounds and insecurities like a dead and rotted corpse. The smell is equally rancid. That's the one thing she really can't stand about smoking: The smell.
Maybe someday, she thinks wistfully, I'll get to start over. Maybe that's what I need... a fresh start. I'll never make the same mistakes again.
But for now she grinds the cigarette butt into the ground, tries to shake the stink out of her hair, and goes back inside.
And the cracks begin to show.
- Cracks by Freestylers
