The Disease

I listen to the pathetic speech that foams out of their mouths, it burns like acid. It bears a weight so heavy it’s hard to breathe. I sit inside the circle again, something I never did before. Before, I watched safely from my own little space, protected my heart and morals, and saved myself from fury. Now, as I sit here, the words burn like a chemical more than ever before as they laugh about these things I despise, these things I have despised and hated all my life. I shove my opinions back down my throat along with the vomit I feel the need to release.
I feel my heart and soul reject every word with a severing feeling as though I’m being cut with a serrated blade, blood trickling slowly with every drop of my increasing disgust. As they smile, they become twisted and warped in my eyes momentarily, like laughing ominous creatures. They look at me as someone inexperienced in life, as if how someone may look at a small child playing with their toys, this furies me. I am not stupid, nor have I ever been. I contain inside of me this aching pain infused with hatred for this apparent remedy they require, this well-needed remedy that isn’t needed at all. It’s woven in my heart and memories as something as sought after as a flesh eating disease, or sawing off one’s own limbs. Every time it’s brought up it continues to feel as a thousand paper cuts ripping my flesh and causing me to bleed. I hate this.
I listen once again to the pathetic speech foaming out of their mouths like that of a rabid animal. I feel no hatred for them, but for the words that escape their lips, the words that contain acceptance, humor, and affection for this disease, as I sit here, in this circle once again.