I wish I could tell you

Apologies for slowness. I've been... a wreck.
Bloodknot. It's like a tumor, sitting in the middle of the chest. It churns. It rolls. It's rough and pressing and painful, but bad as it is you really don't want it to burst. Lose-lose.
I want to be able to move on with my life.
Hate. Hate.
I need rest. I never get any rest. Not for years.
I don't feel love. I don't feel much of anything. It feels like one or more of my internal organs has died and is sitting in me rotting, a dead weight. Literally and figuratively. Oh, and I'm sick. Got a cold. Annoying cough.
Exams are over. Yay? Sigh. I've stopped caring.
I just. Sometimes I don't know why I keep fighting. I'm too subtle. You can see it, if you watch me closely; the twitches, the pained looks, the time spent staring at seemingly nothing. The edges of my mask are clearly visible, I'm just waiting for someone to care enough to want to know what's underneath. I would never ask anyone to lower themselves for me. I don't want to latch onto someone (again) and have them merely put up with me for eight months. I want to be loved. The real me, not the idealized version people think they know. Me. I want. The real me. To be loved.
But why would anyone. After all, I'm hiding. You don't throw away your false leg to get more sympathy.
Sick of it. Sometimes I wish there was no afterlife so I could die in peace.