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My Sweet Blood MAG
I was diagnosed at age eight.
The same day my childhood ended.
Ten shots each day.
I became insulin dependent.
I was trapped inside an invisible box.
No one could hear my helpless breathing.
A golden blade sliced the poisoned lock.
A fire had me freezing.
“Are you sure you can eat that?”
“With all its sugar on top?”
“With its crust so sweet?”
That something … They think I can’t eat?
A machine connects to my side.
Blue veins of a swallowed chain.
A gentle breeze send shores of lies.
If only you knew the shadowed pain.
“Have you checked your blood?”
“When will it happen?”
Numbers have blackened.
I think I can manage.
The bullet holes in my finger burn.
A hollowed tree in season.
An evil hidden in your eyes.
A compass with secret meanings.
“Are you sure you can do that?”
They’re diminishing my human capabilities.
I will not surrender.
I don’t have a limited ability.
The blue bruises are covered by the sleeves of my shirt.
My sweet blood is only killing.
A blank canvas of artificial distort.
A battle with no finishing.
The wires deployed by false imprisonment.
A smiling arena of imminent violence.
Everyone’s equivalent diminishes.
Everyone falls silent.