Alone or dating, it’s all the same, you see – a fleeting desire for a few nights, a whispered promise of a backup call, a singular purpose that drains life of its meaning. No gentle calls to ask how I fare, no tender dates to cherish, just hollow echoes of suggestions I once shared, now used on others like a worn-out refrain.
No roses when illness wraps its chill around me, birthdays forgotten like yesterday’s whispers, no genuine interest in the rhythm of my life – just an empty vessel, a body without a soul. Sometimes they try a little harder, but it’s almost laughable, watching them think I’m blind to their games.
Men may wear different faces, but their intentions are a familiar melody. I see the pattern, the repetition, the emptiness. I won’t reshape myself to fit their fragmented desires. I know that when I walk away, they’ll be forever changed, searching for my face, hearing my name in the silence.
When I reach my destination, you’ll be left in the shadows, a fading memory, a whispered regret – you won’t be around to use me.
Ink Stained Soul... 
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