Type 1

you threw up your dinner in the front yard,

on your knees with rolling eyes

and you would only look at your hands

everything was trembling

the front door was locked,

I'd forgotten my key for the umpteenth time

your insulin was inside

in a backpack

it was 2 in the morning

and no one was answering the door

I was prepared to break in,

if someone didn't answer

by the time I counted to thirty

you kept saying sorry,

saying not to touch you

your hands were too shaky,

you couldn't replace your insulin pump site yourself

I pricked you with the needle

and you yelled because it hurt

I laid you down on the couch

you were so tired

you said to wake you up in four hours,

but I woke you up after every one

I stared at you for seven hours

and it felt longer

every once and a while,

I would panic 

because I'd think you had stopped breathing

but then your chest would move

and I would hold my breath

I'd never been so calmly scared

like I had a job to do

that needed to be finished without mistake

it's finished now

but I'm still in this zone,

like I have something to protect

but nothing to grab