You are beginning to forget 

the feeling you once had

to eat and not think about the effect

food will have on your body.

People slide a filter

on top of your life

once they discover you have 

diabetes;

your weight is suddenly

understandable

and every choice while eating 

comes under scrutiny. 

They assume you do not exercise

and enjoy three times the recommended 

sweets. 

They do not even care 

that there are different types of the disease,

different origins, different causes.

Those people know the relative they had

who lost a leg after years

of self-abuse and shame,

and they equate your reality

with theirs.

Even if you do follow 

at least one or two of the stereotypes,

those ideas repeat inside your head

the longer you keep yourself alive,

the very chemical you knead into your flesh

adding to the proof others claim

as evidence of your unwellness.

Others don’t see the days

you clawed back against malaise

or the times you could have lain barely conscious 

but chose to give others your energy instead

or the nights you cannot sleep

worrying that not even a seizure

will wake you up the next morning.

You may have been 

marked for death 

at age twelve,

but that story was one

you did not follow either.