My abdomen

Is an abomination –

Its skin, a war-torn wasteland.

I rotate the wounds like injured crops –

Looking for a fresh field

to impale a life-giving needle.

Fresh territory abounds in verdant thighs –

But I hesitate, avoiding use

Lest I create a new scarred minefield.

The cannula bends, seeping insulin

Where it pools instead of heals –

A new needle must be plunged.

Life-giving gadget won’t make me envious

Of others smooth, scarless flesh –

I long for my own blank slate again.