insulin
by Tyler Heath
it happened in the woods.
we were fourteen and playing with blood sugar.
you liked the spike, your blurry carnival.
merry-go-round me, you said, unwrapping
more candy from the bucket. it went on
like this. the silent black trees around us.
then the first trickles of sweat. trick-or-treat,
you’d say, and i’d put more in your mouth:
the spinning, painted horses, their carved hearts
quickening to a pulsing ragtime. you were holding
your head and could barely stand, then fell
into the leaves’ static. untwisting more cellophane,
i could hear your mother calling you to come inside,
so i covered your mouth. at some point,
i didn’t want it to just be a game.
the sky was licorice dark.
she kept calling your name louder.
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