To an outsider this looks easy. You don’t understand the importance of accuracy.

You’ve never seen the terrors of lows in the night. You don’t understand that my blood-curdling screams aren’t a fight.

When the hallucinations come you won’t know it’s DKA, you’ll just laugh at whatever goofy things I say.

You can’t relate to the pain on my fingers tips, or the hurt in my heart from ignorant others in relationships.

You can’t fathom the literal pain in my skin, from an unstable A1C I’d been living in.

You’ll never know the fear of dying in your sleep, or the night terrors when your low slumber is deep.

Or how about the shame of my body scars from years of injections? It makes it hard to accept words of affection.

I’m mad at this world that says they’re here to assist. They say they’ll put my concerns on their list.

Their “acts of kindness” only apply to those with money. Content with their charity they live on in harmony.