At first there was that numbness, that ridiculously soul-******* coldness you tried your best not to be succumbed by but you failed, over and over, as you know and acknowledge that his absence was the most terrifying feeling you have ever known. Then came the moments of weakness, where you can’t find anything to rely on or a heart to crash into, to have that equity with what he did to you and you feel tempted to go on a hunt and find a victim that could lend their heart for a while, and let it be played. But you stopped, because you realise that doing so won’t make you feel any better, or any different than him.  Nobody, or maybe everybody- at one point in their lives- will know the cruelty of being awoken by your conscience in the middle of the night and having to face reality as it passes by like a child needing your attention. If this makes you alive, this thing called Pain, then, what sort of feeling makes you feel...dead?

Maybe at one point, I am dead. Maybe I hold the card to my resurrection.

Maybe I have the card in my back pocket and I can use it whenever I please.

Or maybe I’ve taken my box of matches instead....and lit the card on fire. And stayed. Dead.