Once I made love to a boy who hated himself.
Needless to say the feeling ended up being somewhat contagious.
And, as with many of the infections resulting from sex, it was something of a viral problem.

The resulting pregnancy of self-scorn and disgust made for one hell of a diagnosis by the time I finally sought ought an additional opinion.

I felt the very water in my blood turn to brine and the flesh on my bones became like limp, pallid rags.

Then, just when I thought I was showing signs of improvement the worst symptom plastered itself to the space beneath my skin.

Numbness.
Complete disconnect from everything.
It was like loneliness only worse due to the feeling of irreparable maladjustment, like I would never be able to engage in life ever again.

Sure, things would continue to happen around me but that meant I was left to the torture of seeing everything I wanted but couldn't have pass me by, moment by moment, day by day.

Then I got up, wiped the stray and crackled partially dried semen from off of my midsection and realized that I felt guilty no matter how I masturbated.

Thank you, Jesus.