While my sleeves are patched with my heart all over, my skin is tough from needles and bruises. And as hard as I try, I can’t fake a convincing smile, but I can stare down glaring red alerts, warning that my life is in danger. I am sensitive. I feel my emotions hard and tend to express them even harder. I’ve sobbed while eating “chicken and two sides” in Mac, and I’ve uncontrollably laughed to myself on the treadmill in the Plex.