OpheliaFlower
New Member
- Relationship to Diabetes
- Type 1
Hey peeps, found this poem that I really loved, it really touched my heart and explained exactly how I feel.
I did not write it and can not remember where I found it but here you go.
Sorry it's a bit long.
"This morning you are much higher than 10."
But I am not my number I protest in vein
My overburdened blood has betrayed me yet again,
Readily proffering microscopic bits and pieces
Of prior defiant indulgence.
She quaffs this evidence with a thirst as fierce as my own.
Duly humbled and annoyed,
I puncture myself to make amends
Desperately begging forgiveness
I am not my number, but I am her supplicant:
Please mistress, another chance.
With threats of physical destruction
For noncompliance
She restricts my nourishment
Toils me to exhaustion
Such classic moves of cruel oppressors!
"This evening you are 5.2"
Ahh! Sometimes she seems compassionate and kind.
Her caresses are soothing, I must remember
That even a benign number is not the sum of me
And she cannot be trusted.
My intimate nemesis
My deranged captor
My Geppetto, yanking strings
Her power derives from knowing
That neither is her victim without sin.
In my dream, a gleaming white-clad savior slays her.
My fellow slaves and I assemble
The small paper strips that expose our numbers
Set them afire and burn her in effigy
We eat and drink and laugh and sing
And proclaim our rightful names.
I did not write it and can not remember where I found it but here you go.
Sorry it's a bit long.
"This morning you are much higher than 10."
But I am not my number I protest in vein
My overburdened blood has betrayed me yet again,
Readily proffering microscopic bits and pieces
Of prior defiant indulgence.
She quaffs this evidence with a thirst as fierce as my own.
Duly humbled and annoyed,
I puncture myself to make amends
Desperately begging forgiveness
I am not my number, but I am her supplicant:
Please mistress, another chance.
With threats of physical destruction
For noncompliance
She restricts my nourishment
Toils me to exhaustion
Such classic moves of cruel oppressors!
"This evening you are 5.2"
Ahh! Sometimes she seems compassionate and kind.
Her caresses are soothing, I must remember
That even a benign number is not the sum of me
And she cannot be trusted.
My intimate nemesis
My deranged captor
My Geppetto, yanking strings
Her power derives from knowing
That neither is her victim without sin.
In my dream, a gleaming white-clad savior slays her.
My fellow slaves and I assemble
The small paper strips that expose our numbers
Set them afire and burn her in effigy
We eat and drink and laugh and sing
And proclaim our rightful names.
