Featured in Caesura 2020: Imago
I want to write you a poem
I want to write you a poem
about how
butterflies
dance around,
casting shadows
on the walls of my
stomach
as the acid tries to wash
them away
but they dance just out
of reach
I want to write you a poem
about how
butterflies
fill my head,
firing neurons
through the pathways in my
brain
igniting sparks as they fly
away
but your spark stays and catches
fire
I want to write you a poem
about how
butterflies
flutter in my lungs,
flying in circles
through my veins to my
heart,
as my breath tries to push them
away
but when I find my breath, you are
gone
Brain and Heart
mmmmmm. mmmmmm. mmmmmm.
My hand instantly reaches to my left side and pulls my palm-sized black pancreas off my side to glance at the screen. “Reservoir estimate at 0 U. To ensure insulin delivery, change reservoir.” I sigh, slide my finger to the black down arrow, tap it once, then hit the gray circular middle button to select “Ok” to turn the alarm off. The dishes are staring at me while I contemplate whether to obey the commands and whims of my insulin pump, or to let myself slowly get sick. I clip the small boxy pump back into my pocket as I text my sixteen-year-old sister:
Will you come stab me? I don’t wanna change my site
One piece of tape, one sticky wipe, one reservoir, one pink Mio site, and my half-full
bottle of insulin. My hands are full as I trudge back to the kitchen to set up the site. It shouldn’t take long to prepare everything – about 5 minutes or less. But I like to prolong the process as long as possible. Five minutes have now passed, and my sister finally responds:
I wish.
You wish to stab me haha
The plastic on the Mio comes off easily as I hook the reservoir into the tubing. My phone vibrates again:
Yes, I would love to stab you.
Well it would be an honour to be stabbed by you haha
The insulin has been pushed through the tubing – the site ready to be inserted. She texts back,
Aww, lol.
I knew she couldn’t come before I texted her, but my feelings rush over me anyway as I realize I am alone. There’s a battle waging between my head and my heart. Years of burying feelings tells me to focus – it’ll be over soon, and I’ll be alive to live another day. I won’t be sick. But emotions start overtaking logic and they’re saying something different. It pulls up memories of the four-year-old I buried seventeen years ago. Hot tears mixed with confusion and terror are running down her face. She doesn’t understand what’s happening as four nurses hold her down for another shot. Her mom is trying to keep her still. She cries, saying she doesn’t want to play doctor anymore.
Forcing down the memories, I twist and poke my right hip to find a place where I hope it won’t hurt too much. After ripping open the sticky wipe to clean the skin, I awkwardly wave my hand, trying to dry my skin. I peel the paper cover off the back of the Mio, revealing the plunger for the needle. I pull the plunger back, listening as the sides lock into place. The seal that keeps the site sticky comes off in a spiral pattern, and I pull the blue needle cover off. I turn back to my hip, lightly poking the area once more– this time to make sure it’s sticky. It is. I move the tubing out of the way and set the infusion set against my skin.
My heart interrupts me again– this time, with thirteen-year-old me. She surfaces, and I hear the taunts of other diabetics who aren’t afraid of the needles and the pain. Their taunts push her to start changing her own sites. She cries, not only because it hurts, but because with the outpouring of her emotions, the stabbing needle feels more like self-harm than a life-saving procedure. She hides her tears, because no one understands her pain. And they run when she tries to share the raw emotions. I quickly slam that forbidden door of emotions shut – that door stays closed.
But the door refuses to remain closed. It opens just enough to let twenty-one-year-old me through. Seventeen years of buried emotions reveal a tiredness in her being. Her body is riddled with past and present scars, and the glow of the ones to come. My physical body tenses as more terror sets in– the terror of a future void of everything except needles, pain, and the promise of death lingering behind every second.
Brain and reason come back. I take a deep breath, trying to relax, yet I know I won’t. I start putting pressure on the buttons that are waiting to throw the needle into my skin at an incredible speed. Remembering to breathe, I inhale a shaky breath. Slowly I exhale and begin another breath. Suddenly, and surprisingly, the needle releases and throws itself into my skin. My face twists as the feeling of being stabbed settles in.
I tell people it doesn’t hurt, and sometimes it doesn’t. This isn’t one of those times. For the next few seconds, my heart takes over as I stand, holding that needle inside my body. I hear the four-year old screaming, I see her flailing, and I agree with her. My eyes are begging me to let them release their floods, wanting some way to express my hurt. My hands ache to drop this wretched needle and cuddle my teddy bear while hiding under my covers. Instead of giving in, I try to distract myself from the pain by creating more pain elsewhere – by almost piercing my lip with my clenched teeth, by squeezing my right forearm with my left hand. My hip throbs, and my brain takes over as I finally pull the needle out. In its place is my hot pink infusion set. The pain lingers. I push on the site to make sure that it will stay– more pain. I find my tape, peel off the side marked “1,” and stick it around the site. I gently smooth it down to make sure it attached to my skin, then peel off side 2.
Twenty minutes have passed since I sent that first text to my sister. I text her again:
I has been stabbed
Yay!!
I pick up my little black pancreas, turn the screen back on, hit the right button once, then use the circular gray button to select “Done.”
Bonus poem
Doubting Thomas
Clothed in a rust-colored tunic, deodorized with eau de fish, covered in mud and poo, I listened to you declare that you were going to die. My God! I stamped my foot, and insisted that if you were going to die, then I would join you, and die by your side.
But sleep fell heavily, torches roared with fire, a single kiss, a deadly slice, then chains embraced you and I ran. My sandals caught on loose rocks and dirt as I scrambled down the hill, barely concealing myself from the soldiers that dragged you. Your gaze caught mine, your eyes full of fear, begging me to stand with you, asking if I was ready to die at your side. I ripped my eyes away, full of confusion- You were God – you couldn’t be killed . . . right?
Creeping through the streets later, I heard your screams as they beat you with their glass-sharpened whips. I heard the jeers and taunts of the crowd as you carried your cross, and I curled under a boat, covering my ears, blocking out your voice, wondering if it was worth it to pray to a dying God.
And I cursed you,
My God – how could you leave?
I said I wanted to die with you,
not believing you would, or even could,
but you refused to call down
your angels. You screamed at your
father – your God – begging him to
save you as you were dripping blood
on the ground as you hung on a cross
that was fitting for a liar and cheat.
And as the earth quaked, and the sun
went dark, I swore on your
death and so-called “god-hood” that
I would never believe again
Brittany Pyle is a junior at Indiana Wesleyan studying English and Writing. After graduation, she hope to work as an editor or assisting with bible translation. She enjoys reading, playing board games, and hanging out with friends.