These diseases make you unlovable
Nobody loves me when I’m down. And can only see the swarm of darkness closing in on me. My eyes must look so small and bloodshot—fighting to see through bright flashes of light: alarms that never snoozed, constant and jarring.
Nobody recognizes me when I’m breaking. Code, character, promise, or self. My hands must turn into gnarled claws. These that used to build and tickle. Mine that were soft at some point. Now beaten and bloodied, fights that never ceased.
Nobody wants me when I’m dying. And poisoning everything around me. Excuses do not ever mend. Tears in the fabric or rips in the heart. My skin is greening from sickness and internal turmoil. My feet are numbing at the toes and my poor heart is struggling to fill my veins. Sluggish and heavy, aches that never soothed.