A Broken Cigarette: Metaphor Monologue
I can’t hurt anyone anymore. I’m incapable of murderous murderous murderous thoughts. Maybe. Living life lavish like the 70s isn’t the move anymore now a days is it? It’s not my fault someone did this to me. No worries about who but my oh my was it god awful when they stabbed my back after I paid their two month late rent. I’m over it, I know Jay had a lot going on— as if I was aware of the hurt I was causing. I can be a lot sometimes. Shit I told you their name… No no not Jay I swear. I’m a mess.
If you see me sprawled on top of an uncovered mattress Saturday morning with the stench of sweat and sex around me I bet you’ll feel sorry. I’m not even in my own place! I wind up in the mouths of the desperate, lipstick and all! They think I’m cool. Oh! The new girl in school. The girl next door. The mysterious friend in the group that everyone wonders why they want to be friends with them. It’s hard for them not to have me in their life. After each person that’s infatuated by the way I make them feel, by the way their head feels all fuzzy after the first few conversations, by the way I draw attention to them during breaks, by the way they smell after we hang out— after each person that can’t let me go— there are those few survivors.
The smart ones that know what’s up. The strong ones that deal with their childhood trauma like a heroine in an action movie. Those are the ones that hesitantly welcomed me into their hands and mouths and lungs even though my memory lingered onto their winter coats and clogged their pores. I was their temporary relief. Their home away from home. I was the only thing that kept them going. Until one day, they broke me. The said enough is enough. Against their will at times, they don’t let me into the nuthouse or rehab at times. It’s fine if they wake up in the morning after our one night stand and kick me out. It’s okay, happens a lot. They always come back for more though.
It’s a cyclical life, really. You think you’ve gotten rid of me until I sleep with all of your friends and all they do when y’all hangout is talk about me. In every aspect of your life I am there. One way or another. Your mother loved me in the 90s and visits me occasionally on her doorstep at 11pm on a Thursday night. She brings me to her word-slurring lips that reek of Svedka. Your boyfriend wants me on his darkest nights when he’s too embarrassed and ashamed to cry about how he feels. You want me— all the time. Me me me me me me me me me. I fester in all of your thoughts and create a deadly battle in your mind that does not leave room for anyone else and nothing else. You will give in once again. You will continue to want me until the day you finally die.
