The Thing About Type 1

I don’t often wonder or ponder,
Why I am the way I am.
At least not at my sisters level,
As she sits with insence in hand.
Always trying to prove something beyond her.

I don’t always try to find the reason,
Why I process the way that I do.
Because of my father? My mother? The seasons?
I could think of many theories and maybe you can too.

I haven’t often wondered why I’m given the choice,
Or what that choice really represents .
The choice just fades in and out everyday,
A omnipresent presence.
Its ominous voice always talks when given chance.

You are probably really confused.
I think sometimes I am too.
I can’t ever decide how to explain,
How my death and life are fused.

How can you explain,
That every Monday afternoon,
As I sit in my car,
Death comes and whispers, “are you leaving soon?”
As my dexcom deeps of a blood sugar left unmaintained.

I don’t know how to explain,
That it’s a constant choice to survive.
With every new pump sight,
It’s a constant weighing of my entire live,
And if I want to leave this plain.

How do you explain,
The repercussions of choosing to stay?
The fire that consumes my veins?
Puking on the floor as feeling fades,
Satan smearing hot acid in my veins?

How to explain the primal fear,
As the number drops under 45?
Still breathing as every system shuts off,
Screaming inside my head, “I WANT TO BE ALIVE.”
As hands tremble over a stray straw in the juice box.

How do I choose to explain,
That as far back as I can remember,
I’ve woken up on the verge of death?
Vision fading as I fought family members.
Gagging on the spoon of honey with every breath.


How to explain,
How easy it would be to end it?
To leave so quietly,
Press one button and that’s it.
No struggle, no noise, no stains.

How can I explain,
How it will never end?
I have to face this everyday,
Balance actions with insulin in hand.
Weighing my life as a currency for everything.

I don’t often remember this.
That I weigh mortality as if it’s a normalcy.
That I skip meals because of a dosing list.
That I have to walk my life in complacency.
To a failing organ that holds my body in an iron fist.