Over the years, I dated some girls. None withstood a six-month span. All their love was gone once they realized I'm a freak and would forever remain so.

I have never blame anyone. I bowed silently when they said they wanted to break up and thanked them properly for spending time with me. I bought them a cup of coffee and smiled at the OCD-jokes and sprayed antibiotic all over the apartment the moment they were out of the door, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing until my hands burned and my eyes swelled.

They couldn’t understand the fear of being dirty. They cried and rocked me in their arms all night, telling me that I’ve to stop and I’ve to love myself, that I couldn’t wash the blackness of my skin down the drain, that I can’t clean my soul by washing my hands under the boiling hot water for hours. They touched the blood dripping out of my gums and smoothed over the raw, red skin.

“You’re a beautiful, beautiful boy. Beautiful, inside and out.”

As soon as they dozed off, I slipped back to the washroom and cleaned their pity off my shoulders.