Extirpated

When I gave a fuck, they fed off me like rats at a banquet, gnawing away until there was nothing left but bones and a half-hearted smile. Every favor, every kind word, every damn ounce of effort—they pocketed it like loose change, never looking back.

Gratitude?

Hell, it wasn’t even in their vocabulary. I was a convenience, a goddamn vending machine of good intentions, and when I finally ran out, they shook me like I owed them more.

But then I said, “Fuck it.” I stopped playing their game by lighting myself on fire to keep their pathetic asses warm. And that’s when the knives came out.

Oh, the outrage. I was selfish now, cruel, cold-hearted. The same people who bled me dry were suddenly victims of my indifference, all saints, crucified on the altar of my apathy.

The hypocrisy is enough to choke on. When you care, you get stripped bare. When you don’t–you become the villain in their two-bit morality play.

Here’s the thing: I’ll take the villainy. I’ll wear the black hat and ride off into the sunset while sitting in a circle jerk of self-pity.

Let them talk. Let them stew.

I’ve got nothing left to give, and for the first time in my life, that’s freedom.