On Life and Diabetes
Unzipping my case,
I fumble for my meter.
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,
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?
you prick me and I bleed.