Don't call my Name, I just want a Cigarette

The battle scars bear witness to the wars waged on emotional fronts. Love is dead under the fires of Practicality and the necessity of War. My heart is the battlescape with criss-crossed battle hardened scars laid over scars, drenched in the futility of tears that barely wet the dry leathery organ, I have no need for love anymore. The only thing I want for Christmas is to heal my physical self. Let the emotional scars remain, for this is my Glory.

The branded words on my heart. Unspoken, yet clearly there.