The insulin resistance is
blocking my bloodstream
freeway.
My blood sugar spikes and I find myself
elated with a deity swimming in the
clouds.
When it hits a low, I sink beneath
the copper mines
I used to visit as a child.
I don’t like being
underground
when I could be doing aerial flips on the skyline.
Ever since the doctor prescribed
the pill
I think about the sharpness of razor blades.
This isn’t a hopeless girl
crying wolf
when I haven’t seen any in the forest.
I am a woman
who visited
the doctor six times without progress.
I wish this
was a myth of my ovaries, but it’s the
rule.
Where’s the authenticity
in becoming a drug mule approved by the
government.