When you kiss me, I want to die.
It's always the same afterwards. The swelling in my chest, the seizing of the back of my throat. I can't breathe, can't see with the stinging in my eyes. I piss blood into a plastic tube because my legs won't take me to the bathroom. Something awful is whispered into my ear: "Infection!"
"Fuck that," I say, "this is love." But I turn away and cry in spite of myself.