My blood is tainted. Looking at me you would never guess my disease - it doesn’t show itself in physical manifestations. I have no symptoms - no festering wounds, no lingering cough. My disease is silent, quietly impacting my body every moment of I draw breath. The lesions that eat away at me aren’t visable to any doctor, my wounds are numerous, unhealing, but can never be treated by medication.

And my blood is tainted. Paracites multiply in its stream, attacking and destroying any foreign body. Efforts to salvage what remains of its purity are quickly surrounded and overwhelmed by the agents that work to preserve and destroy me at the same time. I am diseased. Infested. Numb to your pain, uncaring of your love or disregard.

And my blood is tainted. Don’t taste it, touch it. It will infect you. It will destroy you. Your pretty skin eaten slowly from the inside by those sharp-toothed worms that writhe and swim with each beat of my corrupt, withered heart. And I don’t care enough to save you.

My blood is tainted. Cursed. Contaminated. Hungry.

My razor is a mere heartbeat away from what I need from you.

My cure.