Sharps by Erin M. Akers
In the corner next to the perfumed lotions and nail polish –
Warning: Sharps Container.
A red plastic box that houses every
jab diabetes has taken at her.
Like a warning sign to the world,
“You think this girl is just like the rest
but she is not.”
When the other girls were learning how to
apply mascara and braid hair
she was learning how to
calculate insulin ratios && avoid hitting veins.
Friday nights when coworkers let loose, downing shots
of tequila, able to forget their troubles
at the bottom of the glass, she tries to figure out
how the whiskey will interact with her long-acting insulin.
She is never allowed to forget, not fully.
In the morning, when her best friend rolls over &&
ignores the morning alarm she must
get up and rummage through the cabinets
desperately trying to stay alive.
Sweating as she prays she can shovel in
the life-saving sugar fast enough.
On the floor of the kitchen
while everyone else sleeps
she cries sugary tears.
Every time her feet hurt or her sight blurs
she wonders if this is it; is this when
the complications start? Is she
just a hop, skip, and a jump away from
afternoons on a dialysis machine.
At a business dinner everyone oohs and ahhs
at the food’s fancy presentation
but she’s calculating carbs;
food is just another medicine to her.
She worries if any man will ever love her,
knowing she’s broken. Why would he
when there are so many women out there
who are not?
&& some nights, when a long day is
over - when she wants to pass out in
exhaustion - but she has to
stay up to worry about
food vs. exercise vs. insulin.
she screams towards the heavens.
In the corner, next to the perfumed lotions and nail polish
lies a red box that holds all the broken dreams of
what her life was supposed to be.
Warning: Sharps Container.
Warning: Sharps Container.
A red plastic box that houses every
jab diabetes has taken at her.
Like a warning sign to the world,
“You think this girl is just like the rest
but she is not.”
When the other girls were learning how to
apply mascara and braid hair
she was learning how to
calculate insulin ratios && avoid hitting veins.
Friday nights when coworkers let loose, downing shots
of tequila, able to forget their troubles
at the bottom of the glass, she tries to figure out
how the whiskey will interact with her long-acting insulin.
She is never allowed to forget, not fully.
In the morning, when her best friend rolls over &&
ignores the morning alarm she must
get up and rummage through the cabinets
desperately trying to stay alive.
Sweating as she prays she can shovel in
the life-saving sugar fast enough.
On the floor of the kitchen
while everyone else sleeps
she cries sugary tears.
Every time her feet hurt or her sight blurs
she wonders if this is it; is this when
the complications start? Is she
just a hop, skip, and a jump away from
afternoons on a dialysis machine.
At a business dinner everyone oohs and ahhs
at the food’s fancy presentation
but she’s calculating carbs;
food is just another medicine to her.
She worries if any man will ever love her,
knowing she’s broken. Why would he
when there are so many women out there
who are not?
&& some nights, when a long day is
over - when she wants to pass out in
exhaustion - but she has to
stay up to worry about
food vs. exercise vs. insulin.
she screams towards the heavens.
In the corner, next to the perfumed lotions and nail polish
lies a red box that holds all the broken dreams of
what her life was supposed to be.
Warning: Sharps Container.
