Above Each Other

He's the character of man
who thinks himself kind
and generous
until it's all that he is—
a gentle touch,
a loving caress.
Prick and squeeze,
penetrate and hug.
A single finger.
Or sometimes, cuddle
then fool around with needles.
He was not my Adam,
but I was willing to share.

Pushing palms down my legs,
he feels the bumps and rolling
of my muscles where they'll bruise
and prickle with scabs.
Like mountains and valleys,
or skin cells and the empty
places filled with electrons.
A naked goose on a table
readying to be ready to serve.
The flames burn like Hell:
my own hell for my sins
of the flesh, of the white
blood cell, of the ivory
lace of virgins.
I've been undercooked for years now,
my skin too white for my blood.

I made myself this way
by the path of my veins
leading to the core of my body,
pooling liquid next to my liver.
He made me this way,
but he is good.
I am good, outliving
my purpose with muttered words
from someone else,
as I stop my organs and
my organs have stopped
my mouth from working
over the mesas and rivers.

I look out over the table
with pure, hazel eyes.
I can see white wine,
pale bread, wan fish
that I have refused to eat
with my hands and tingling fingers.
I curl my toes and rip flesh.

At the point where my sockets
are blind and reach out with nodes
of pulsing fever, as they're meant to see,
I care enough to shake under
his fist and stare.
I was supposed to see him,
when the final moment came,
but I blind myself with faith
in a lover who fakes sleep
as He removes my unborn children
one by one.  I dull forever
in the 21st century.

This is supposed to be a poem modeled after Margaret Atwood.  I've really fallen in love with her work... because it's beautiful and, gah, beautiful. When I have to present this in class, though, it may get quite awkward... but oh well.

I like it when everyone can draw their own conclusion to/about any writing, but since this is my writing blog, I like to put down what things mean, at least to me, for future reference. So, if you want to purely make your own conclusions, don't read over light words!:

This is about my diabetes and God.  I'm not Christian, for those of you who don't know (though, I do believe in the concept of Jesus, just don't connect myself with the God, so I don't buy the package -- but this is a different conversation to have, I think).  One of the things I always hear, though, is that God created me, and God has a plan for me. And if I had been alive three-hundred years ago, I would have died at age 8.  And if I had been born sixty years ago, I might have died at 30. And if I'd have been born in Pinesdale, I might have lived on celery until someone got desperate enough to know God won't help me, and smuggle me out to a hospital or died. Will God help me? Did God intend for me to live, or do I live of my own free will? If I were to starve myself burning calories digesting celery, would my "time" come when he meant for it to, or when my cells were so degraded and digested themselves that they give up?

All of the sexual references... I don't know exactly how I got so many in there, but it points out to me how illness is in everything, like a faith, even though I like to say my diabetes does not create me at all.

["I want to be a little less like my father and more like my dad."  -- "David" by Noah Gunderson. I've been in love with this song recently, and really like this line of lyric.]