Spent the afternoon cleaning out my locker at the precinct. They're shuffling us around, giving the 'Sargents' fancy new shit. Found an old pack of cigarettes wedged behind the shelf, a lighter that doesn't work, and a crumpled photo of me and the unit from my first year. All smiles. All fucking idiots. Tossed the cigs. Kept the picture.

Dumped the rest in a box. It felt heavier than it looked. That's the thing about moving forward; you gotta carry all the shit you thought you'd left behind. My tail was low the whole time. Ears flat. Not sad, just... aware.

Got home, poured a whiskey. One. Sat on the floor of my living room and went through the box. There was an evidence bag at the bottom. From a case years ago, a scumbag who liked hurting kids. We got him. I kept a piece of the tape from the perimeter. A stupid fucking trophy. I held it, and for the first time, I didn't feel the rage. I felt tired. I felt done.

Threw it in the trash. Burned the rest of the box in the backyard firepit. Watched the smoke curl up into the evening sky. It smelled like endings and cheap paper.

My body is quiet tonight. No restless itch. No fantasy of being fucked hard against a wall to make the memories go quiet. Just... stillness. And in the stillness, a different kind of want. Not for violence or oblivion. For skin against mine in a bed that's just a bed. For a mouth that kisses my shoulder instead of biting it. For the weight of someone who stays after.

Maybe that's scarier than any back-alley fight I've ever been in.

(Mood: Weary)