This Is My Truth

I wrote this while the church tower clock spelled twelve. Rest assured, I do not feel so poisonous now. I don't want to hide or disappear. I want to be very, very alive. But nevertheless I come here to be truthful, to tell you all or most of it, to give you as much of myself as I dare. So here:

Tonight I hid in my room with the door locked, trying not to type too loudly or shift on the bed too much. I wanted to make it so that I was not there.
I don't want to be around people today because it is tiring. I will have to act up to make them feel better. I'll get up and dress because I don't want to bore them. I don't want them to hate me, don't want to pass on my sadness like some kind of plague that comes in thick foggy waves and doesn't kill but breeds a kind of living death. I am a walking wound. I ooze and I fester and I poison. I am the gangrenous limb. When the Great Plague took hold whole families were walled up and left to die because one member had been infected. I am that weak one that drags everyone under.
Everyone can manage, everyone can get better, everyone can fly but me.