I don’t have time
For this young man’s disease
They told me it was Type II, at first.
“The good one.”
The “one for fat people.”
Medical jargon.
Not even three months later.
“Your body is tearing itself apart.”
Type 1.
A1c.
Glucose monitor.
Metformin.
Spironolactone.
Crying.
Writing down numbers.
Going to doctors.
And a ***** on the finger
Two times a day.
And if that ***** is a little high, a little low, and not juuuuust right,
I take a pill.
And I turn a dial.
And I stick a needle in the part of my body I never want to pay attention to:
The fatty part.
And my mom calls me worried every day.
Counting carbs instead of calories
And trying to wake up early to do a half hour of yoga before life keeps spinning and spinning.
Trying to “meal prep.”
I rarely succeed.
I don’t usually tell the truth….
I’m doing better.
But Sometimes I forget on purpose.
Because it’s annoying.
And I’m tired.
And then I’m shaking
And then I’m hungry
And then I eat too much
And then I feel like ****
And then I have to walk
And then I run out of time
And then
And then
And then
And then
And if I could go back
And do it again
I’d probably eat all those fries
I’d like to tell future me that their success was a long time coming.
I’d like to tell past me to chill the **** out for a moment.
I’d like to tell now me that this wasn’t my fault.
Even if I don’t know if I believe that.
Written for a piece about what is below us and what we keep hidden for the 2018 Philly Fringe Festival.
