The Epidemic

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.