Loneliness is like a thousand pinpricks, drawing out drops of blood that drip slowly down your arms, your legs, your torso. Each new wound stings until you get used to the feel of the needle and then you barely notice the pain. At first you hurriedly clean the dark rivers of blood with rubbing alcohol, like your mother taught you, desperate to hide what makes you different from the people around you, but slowly you stop caring and openly wear your scars as medals. Your outward appearance no longer matters much to you. You stop trying to impress people that you once were content to just be around, those people who use you for their own means and then discard you like a rotten apple. Nothing matters much. Go through the motions and wear a mask of social normality just to survive each day. Day in, day out, it’s always the same.