I am a disease, to be feared by many.
It is not death that spreads, but anger.
For a while it lightens the burden I carry.
The fear and anxiety that remains mutate cells,
into tears that tighten around my chest.
Stamped like a branding iron, burning with ignorance.
My incompleteness manifests in a shape of a jigsaw.
In-between the cracks, a hollow space breeds pity.
Consuming my broken flesh, it defiles every essence of humanity left.
I am not a stain that can be removed with one solution of bleach.
I am a test subject.