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There are still things I want to be, you know? Still things I want to do. Labels I still want people to attach to me that haven't been attached before. Husband, oddly enough, is on that list now. It didn't used to be. It's a recent thing, but it would be nice to have someone look at me that way. Call me that. Think of me that way. It's been the goal for the last three years, really - to be well enough to live up to that label. There were times I felt I was getting there. Like it was just around the corner. Just out sight, but never too far too reach.

I don't feel that way tonight. Tonight as I lay there in bed I looked down the length of my body and saw all the scars. My chest. My stomach. My groin. My thighs. My knees. My shins. My feet. All scarred. Long straight lines and spherical blotches marking surgeries and accidents and illness. This is what people will always see when they look at me. No one will look at this and see the body of someone they love. They will see a patient, a victim, and one day a corpse.

And on that day when they see a corpse there will be no one to identify that corpse. No one to claim the body. No one to bury it, and no one to mourn the passing. Because, really, there is that much that will be lost. Just another person who failed to connect with the world around them. One more lonely person who lived just long enough to die alone.


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