I feel like it’s me.
Cursed,
This,
thing inside me.
An infectious
melancholic virus.
A slow taint,
that wears them down.
To be with another,
I must invent a man
I am not.
Live a lie
to save them
from this
miasmic venom within.
So I must choose,
the loneliness
or the verity
to never let another,
close.