what time is it?

gift?

I wake up bathing in sweat. I sigh, another night on the battlefield. I've grown used to it. I chuckle if the novel was right I would already be dead. I'm not very innocent any more. I've grown used to it. I think about everyone i've seen dying and i dig my nails into my hands. I get up another day, another chance. I try to smile but my face doesn't want to. I splash water in my face. I look at myself. Didn't age a bit, just as perfect as ever, the only thing that has changed is the world around me. I learned how to live under the radar: by being mediocre at everything. The only thing I can't make mediocre is my face, my damned face. An angel said it was a gift but I don't think it is. I can't go to a psychologist because I'm far too young to have fought in any great war. Also averyone i valued is dead. I'm a fucking lone sheep in an society of pack wolves.