The hook weaves through the yarn, and, in it, I see the breaking, flowing loops of a body.
Being diabetic is just like making a sweater. The needles come in and out of the skin, the stomach, the soft parts of a person you wish to keep tender. The hook does one chain stitch, then one more. As I look down at my stomach, where the insulin shots keep it warm, I notice the slip knots of purple and blue string in the place of bruises. My blood is polyfill stuffing. And in those loops of yarn, in the absence of a body, I see that giving an insulin shot is just like crocheting.
Both feel kind of the same.
About the Author
Hazel J. Hall is a writer and poet powered by caffeine and insulin. Right now, she is pursuing an English degree while working on her first novel. More of Hazel’s work can be found in Dream Noir, Overtly Lit, and Sage Cigarettes, with other pieces forthcoming or visible at her site, hazeljhall.com.