You can be aware of a bad habit and

still reach for the lighter,

cigarette hanging off the corner

of a lip like a pinky finger

clinging to the edge of a cliff.

Veins float to the surface

of fingers as knuckles

turn a fleshy white,

stuck grasping

a captor turned savior

until the mind begs the body

of the question —

do you love it more

than you love

you?

Let yourself

let go.