by Prince Bush
Everyone I love lives
long enough to be diabetic.
Glaucoma; cataracts; refraining
from fresh-salty-breaded smells
like pretzels, pizza, pasta; pots of
precisely excised, disappointing
meals; are all the moments
waiting for me, if I live. Even so,
how will I ingest the news, inject
myself, when I want to inject
myself—who will stop
me from dying from depression
so I can die diabetic.
Who will hold the right needle; who
will insulate me from myself
and make me take some insulin—
for my body, innocent, does
want it, my bruised
brain, innocent, doesn’t want it.
I do not want it. Depression
owns and does not want my body—
how can I be trusted, take my own
medicine, when death for so long
has been a sought medal and metric and
mode. How will I run from death like
everyone else. I’d need a hex
to care—curb carbs, sugar; eat fat
fishes, flax seeds, greek yogurt, greens
extra virgin olive oil, beans,
kale, fresh fruit, tofu, cottage cheese
eggs and chicken, plant-based proteins.
I will need a rhyming
spell. To refrain,
I need a rhyming spell.
Prince Bush is a poet in Nashville, TN. More publications can be found at pbush.com.