for Geof, on the edge of knowing

They called it Type Two.
Not a curse, not a crime;
just a whisper from the bloodstream:
“You’ve crossed a line.”

Not a cliff, but a curve.
Not a fall, but a shift.
The body, once silent,
now speaks in glycaemic glyphs.

🩸
I felt it first in the fog,
the slow syrup of thought,
the thirst that sang louder
than reason e'er taught.

A diagnosis, they said.
A name for the tide.
But I heard it as poetry:
“Your sugar’s got pride.”

🍬
So I mapped it in spirals,
in mirror and flame,
in placemats of ritual
that honour the name.

I stitched it in textiles,
in breath and in bite,
in the kink of control
and the flare of the fight.

⚖️
Now I walk with the meter,
a partner, not foe.
I count not just carbs,
but the places I grow.

This isn’t surrender.
It’s a new kind of spell.
A body in balance,
a story to tell.