My loneliness has no cause and no effect. It's a part of me. A trait, like the color of my eyes. A skill, like playing the piano but in reverse. The piano plays me. I'm good at it. At letting it play me. It brings me peace and pain. Did I choose to be alone, or did loneliness choose to be with me.

Heard that you get two chances at true love. Wasted both of them. What are the odds of getting a third one. A girl appears in my life. It happens because I'm not ugly. Do the bare minimum and it works. Fuck her three times and ghost her. Three times unless God delivers me new pussy sooner. Three times because she can't fill the void. Her pussy is the void. Her pussy is my loneliness and it feels good. Warm, tight, and cozy. If I have feelings, she'll get the ick. If I don't, I'll get the ick when I pull out and my cum fills her navel. She's attracted to me because I don't like her. I don't like her because she's attracted to me. We end up alone.

Can't make friendships last. Always worried about coming across as boring. Lacking my father's effortless charm. Been told he was an enchanting man. I would've learned it from him if he hadn't died. Everything would be fine. Instead, I'm a quiet guy. One of my best excuses. I know what it's like to be charming. When it happens I image what it'd be like to be him. My charm holds hands with my loneliness. They're friends. The piano that plays me when it wants. Alone because I'm not charming. Not charming because I'm alone. Because he left.

My mother is the only one who calls. Thousands of miles away. How are you, she asks. I tell her things are great. Work's going well. I went to the gym today. What are you doing this weekend, she asks. I tell her no plans. Going to stay resting at home. Same thing every week. She feels my loneliness through the phone. Awkward silence for a couple of seconds. She doesn't probe. She wants to, but is scared that I'd push her away if she did. I'd never push her away, but she doesn't need to know the specifics of my pain. Don't want her to think any of it is her fault. Alone because I don't talk about it. Don't talk about it because I'm alone. Nothing ever changes.

Every day consumed by a bullshit job. Nothing would change in the world if I didn't do it. Not one life affected, except mine. At the office being hyper-aware of every physical sensation in my body. Little pressure in my chest. Little sting in my arm. Multiple attempts to take a full deep breath. Thinking I'm having a heart attack at the slightest physical discomfort. Drowning in negative thoughts. Go back home. My heart will stop while I'm alone taking a shit. I'll be found two weeks later on the bathroom floor naked. My ass unwiped.