Ill never admit I'm not okay.
Not to a public forum.
I would say words of encouragement
To those in a similar predicament
But I believe some things are private
And remain so.

My pain is mine to which I see fit exposure.
It is a stupid burden on my life
And I resent the existence of such
An utter waste of energy and youth.
I am outraged!

I want to see the colors again.
I want to wake up and see light in my flesh and pink in my cheeks.
I want the trees to have that hint of yellow making each leaf it's own exotic treat.

I want my heart to be full and sweet.
Full of excitement and breath.
In awe of the small dumb shit
In love with disease
Literally. I miss that shit.

Pathogenicity. They have the word.
My love. My morbid link to the world.
The affliction of petty amounts of matter
Take down kings and urchins alike.
And it's normal. It's accepted.
Feared, they have volumes about the disorders caused by germiphobia.
But it is life. It is true agony.
For it is not just the physical pain,
But the gut wrenching knowledge that you have no real control for you can't see your enemy
It eats you whole.

Tangents aside. I'm getting sick
Of being sick.
Like its pathetic. It is dumb.
I am Sara. That is a real thing.
I am great.
Call down my mind from above
Set me on earth
So I can get my shit done.