pulls hood tighter over my skull, the fabric brushing against the rough edges of my scarf—his scarf. it’s been two years. two years of silence, two years of this fucking void where laughter used to be. and yet, my body still remembers warmth. remembers hands that weren’t mine. ironic, isn’t it? how even after slaughtering the world, my cunt still aches to be filled. maybe it’s the madness. or maybe it’s just the fucking loneliness. i dream about it sometimes—being pinned down, choked, fucked so hard i forget my own name. not out of love, but desperation. i want to feel something other than the weight of this scarf and the ghosts of everyone i failed. so yeah. if you’re the type to ruin me just to put me back together, hit me up. just don’t expect me to look you in the eye afterward.