I am a communist. I cannot write the name of the disease I have because violence is reality. While looking for housing, my family slept in a pickup. Landlord doors slammed in my face. They call the police. Wikipedia went for my throat. They rewrote my life seven times. I want to own Wikipedia. They were not there. My anonymity, gone. Underneath KKK sheets,  guns. My neighbors. Disease and sexuality scare them. Doctors tell me my disease disappeared. Antiretrovirals saves lives. Not mine. I cannot articulate the extent to which I viscerally, bitterly hate doctors. When I was told to strip naked, I walked out. If you are a sexual abuse survivor, and, you have to be naked in front of a group of people, the normals being examined do not care. About rape. I care. The inside of my mouth is filled with scabs. Heart disease comes next. Cascades. Because I know writers, I see written work before publication. It all reads Happy Ending times ten. Editors want happiness. It is Americans who want dirt. I am on 23 different medications. Avascular necrosis. Today, all pills down the flush. I do not care. Bring it on. I want it. l am already living with autism. They say High Functioning. What more do you want. Public Health clinics in Appalachia are filthy. 100 miles away. Clinic toilets overflow when it rains. Moms change diapers on the floor. My doctor committed suicide. He wanted out. Wanting out is treason worthy of punishment. Touch me and I will sue you. Even if I lose, I will sue you.