On Life and Diabetes

 

Unzipping my case,

I fumble for my meter.

Staring solemnly

at the series of small callouses

gracing every digit on my left my hand,

it dawns on me:

my life IS diabetes.

 

Too many times each day,

I poke myself,

seeking the level of glucose

flowing through my veins.

 

Each test leaves behind a scar,

so tiny the naked eye might miss it,

yet so bold it feels like Braille

beneath a blind man’s fingers.

 

If my sugar runs high,

I must inject myself with insulin,

restoring the natural order of things.

 

Should my levels be low,

I must feed my face,

building blocks like protein to

preserve my strength.

 

I constantly check my ’emotional glucose’ meter too.

 

Through pricks and barbs who poke and prod,

I discover where my sweetness levels fall.

Every puncture point leaves its mark

in my memories,

its scars upon my heart.

 

If I’ve been too kind and caring,

left myself wide open and vulnerable,

it’s time to serve up a shot of cynicism,

and remember

that the world doesn’t love

the same way that I do.

 

If I’ve lost my sweet edge

and ventured to the sour side,

I must feast on love and laughter,

and the follies of furry four-footed friends

until all is right with the world once more.

 

Should I choose not to check

and let ignorance be bliss,

I know I’ll not survive.

 

Diabetes or Life?

 

Either way,

you prick me and I bleed.