The Empty Heart

I can make friends with many people in a short time. Regardless of the place, the situation, or the person, I can be funny, captivating, and open-hearted, as if we’ve known each other forever. I share intimate stories and secrets, confess my biggest sins and fears, and make them feel understood. I’ll go to great lengths, no matter how difficult, to make them happier just by having met me. I used to take pride in my ability to shut down my shyness, lethargy, and social anxiety, transforming into the opposite - doing the bravest, craziest, and most likable things without overthinking. It allows me to connect with people who would otherwise remain distant.

But I’m a ghost, an empty heart wrapped in flesh without any empathy. The only reason I make friends so easily is because, to me, they mean nothing. And if I do develop a crush on someone, I’ll analyze her intensely, trying to understand the maddening allure, only to lose interest and drop her like a hot potato once I’ve figured her out. I drain people emotionally and then move on, like an unscrupulous wanderer, partying with those around me one moment and vanishing the next when no one’s paying attention. I wonder if I’m just a shapeshifter, echoing whatever gets me closest to my current target - whether that’s their favor, their thoughts, or their body.

Maybe I’m just Frankenstein’s monster, pieced together from words I once heard someone I admired say. I pretend to be human, but I’m nothing more than a parasite, feeding on the fears, dreams, and problems of others. Like a predator, I pounce on the first person who crosses my path, tear them apart, and feast on the remains. But the satisfaction is fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it arrives. Nothing can fill this void inside me, especially not someone who only wanted to be loved, held, or saved, and is now little more than a vague memory in the wake of my bloodlust. Then I move on to the next pretty face, hoping that this time, things will be different.