Every night I need my “fix.” I try to tell myself I’m through. But my resolve weakens under the overwhelming desire for the object of my addiction. So I put on my jacket and into the night I scuttle. When I arrive at my “dealer’s” establishment, I look right and left – then pop inside.
I survey his merchandise, which is laid out for me to see. As I assess the goods, he watches me with a knowing smile. A strange powder covers his fingers. I know I should just leave, but I imagine the rush, the sweet high. Defeated, I take out a crumpled $20 bill and hand it over. He puts my “drug” into a nondescript bag and says: “Come again.”
Like a thief, I steal into the night. Beads of sweat cross my brow as I approach my home. I know I should just toss the bag into the garbage, but my hands grasp it with a steely grip.
I enter my apartment and open the bag, reach in and remove the contraband. This is my last chance. I could just toss it in the garbage and eat the apple that sits on my countertop, but I am too weak. I open my mouth and finish the whole thing, then lean back in my chair and tell myself this is the last time. But somewhere in the night, my “dealer” is laughing. I know I should quit.
But I just love smoking crack.
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