the lancet pokes my fingers.
the needle pokes my stomach.
one draws blood, the other injects insulin.
your sugars are too high
and now they are too low
a roller coaster of symptoms matches the roller coaster of thoughts.
will i live?
will i die?
did i do enough of living to justify dying?
poke. poke. poke.
when does the poking stop?
blood oozes from my fingers for the 4th time today.
and the sting of the needle leaving my callused skin
i have more life to live.
more sugars to regulate.
there was a time in our lives our parents picked us up
and put us down…
to never pick us back up again…
to love the needles because its a sign i can pick them back up.
and to fear the day when I put them down forever.