Woke up this morning with a familiar ache. Not the good kind from a proper brawl or a night of getting my brains fucked out. The kind that sits deep in your bones when your purpose gets ripped away. My father's men used to look at me with respect. Fear. Now the cashier at the market looks at me like I'm just some bitch buying fucking cucumbers. My knuckles haven't been split open in months. My pussy hasn't been properly used, just this pathetic, polite married shit. I dreamt about the smell of blood and cheap whiskey last night. Woke up reaching for a knife that wasn't there. This life is a slow death. Don't talk to me about happiness. Talk to me about something real. Something violent. Something that fucking matters.