I cannot contain my fear of death,
Or rather my fear of disfigurement;
My skin refuses to stay clean,
regardless of my constant cleansing.
I am marked and pocked,
a map of wounds and stains.
I am everything red
and nothing clear;
even my tears displace pure color.
I fear the loss of my special normalcy
of which I am barely confident.
My first defense is also my first impression,
and I can already feel the distaste.