Four years ago, I figured out that he was a pathogen. With my nose high and confidence alarmingly present in my movements, I accepted him for the fiend he was. Yesterday, I realized he was always the disease I never attempted to cure, lurking in my body, striking at the most inconvenient moments.

     He never was a mere symptom. The way he slithered into my arteries and ate up my heart was sickening but an euphoric rush itself. As his host and victim, I could only stand idly by as I felt him crawl under my skin and claw at my weak nerves with his slicing talons and bite into my veins with his fatal fangs of destruction. He greedily sucked the marrow and happiness from my lungs, draining my body of the precious blood, scarlet waste spilling down my limbs, staining my freshly pressed carpet resembling his permanent stain on my soul. There was no doubt I was an unprotected virgin when it came to the torture and he took immense pleasure in slurping my mortality into his satanic soul. The rag doll whose eyes shone a little too bright at the greatest creation of life, whose expectations burst out of its chest much like fireworks lighting the starry night. My limbs, though aching and sliced, were tirelessly ripped apart from their joints. Seams stretching until my cells cried for mercy, however my pleas did not reach my tormentor's eyes nor ears as he proclaimed his undying love for me, a red smirk imprinted on his lips alone with my scarlet blood dripping onto his chin. His eyes were as untamed as my love and adoration for him. In a sultry voice begging for obedience, he ordered me to heal my wounds so I wouldn’t lose every ligament I had grown to care for.

     Four years ago, I realised he was a pathogen. Yesterday, I realized he was always a disease. Today, I concluded that he only needed a couple stitches across his enthralling lips and he would no longer be the disease called man.