My shot leaves my body pockmarked and scarred. Painfully dimpled and raised flesh. Yearning to be scratched. Deep scar tissue and bruises. Yearning to be covered.
Yet I am so lucky. I can still stand in front of the mirror to view my damaged flesh with eyes that still can see. I can still verbalized my discontent.
I have insurance to pay for the medications that costs twice what I make in a month. Medications that will keep me standing and talking and fighting.
There may come a day when these things are no longer possible. Not on my watch.
Aut vincere aut mori.