I’m a pincushion.
Every *****,
Every poke,
A pinpoint for survival.
The proof lies on my fingertips and thighs,
These scares are immune to healing.
It haunts the space between my skull, like a catchy song.
I’m told ‘we’ll’ get through this,
Yet I’m fighting alone against this chronic illness within.
No one knows the battle perusing inside of me every second of the day
It’s the tick of a clock, un-wanted and nuisance.
My life was stolen, swept into an unexpected twirl of a storm,
Sweeping me into a whirlwind of emotions
I’m left stranded, taken out of comfort with no direction
I’m hit with these battles to make me stronger,
Yet my strength is stretched so thin.
You won’t define me.
You won’t control me.
My sweet chronic illness,
Diabetes.