Type One


I take forever 
Looking in the mirror.
Connected to a machine
That acts as my pancreas.
Never truely naked.

Worn down. 
To many needles
Puncturing my skin. 
Too much hunger 
I can't avoid it. 


More blue and purple,
than creamy white.
Bruises covered me.
Scar tissue took their place. 


I have no escape.
I am stuck in a cycle
of checking myself


The smell of insulin 
stains my hands.
Barely washing away,
before it comes back.


I am classified.
I am a "type". 
To stay alive,
Working the delicate balance
Between life and death.
I am still dying.



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