And that's just it. Something I don't talk about with anyone. How I feel unlovable because of my disease.
There's a tangled mess of hurt, sadness, hopelessness, loneliness--The feeling of being the other--Tainted. Awashed in blood and filth.
Don't look at me. You can't know me.
You take your clothes off, but they don't see anything. Just a shell. A handsome distraction. A party favor.
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