Here we go.

I am dead. Of dead heart. Of Dead mind. Of dead soul. All that remains are the calluses on my hands.

After all this time. I'm back where I started. back to my old single swinging lifestyle. Back to not giving a flying fuck about relationships. About anything more meaningful than friends with benefits, about lust, just caring about what I read, about what I wrote, about keeping self happy with the daydreams and the beautiful words, images created by other writers to keep me happy. This words keeping me breathing. keeping me. keeping me like he couldn't. I feel my own calluses and think of him. think that after everything I'm back in the same place and all I'm left with are memories and calluses.He had calluses too. He had them when I met him. Overwork at age 18, already having too much done to him. I loved running my fingers over it when we held hands. I loved feeling those calluses, reassuring me that no matter what, he'll always work, always provide for me. I loved him. Loved him down to what should have been ugly, unwanted, and I took it as a sign of grace, a sign of beauty, a sign of his devotion to his survival, and a sign of our future together. It's gone now and I'm dead. The only spark of life I feel is when I'm pushing that line. Pushing it, not caring. Drinking, smoking, sex. Pick your vice. pick my life.