The intimate, inanimate insulin pump
It can be our partner in triumph, or our crutch in defeat.
It feels every occlusion.
When it cries for help, we cry too.
It’s there when we are most vulnerable; with us when we’re alone.
When we’re high and want to rage, it throws the punches.
It has the data to delight, as well as the digits to despair.
It’s got our numbers.
Sometimes we push its buttons. Other times, it pushes ours.
Some nestle themselves against a warm bosom. Others reach sensually beneath a waistband.
It can be kinky or it can be modest. Or both at the same time.
Sometimes we find it wrapped around our fingers. Or our whole bodies.
If we wander astray, it help us correct and get back on-course.
It can remind us when we forget.
It whines when its bottle is empty, or when it needs to be changed.
It tickles us.
It demands attention. It makes it worth it.
It sees us when we’re sleeping. It knows when we’re awake.
It knows if we’ve been bad or good; but it doesn’t care and it doesn’t judge.
It’s not perfect. Neither are we.
But it is remarkable.
And I can’t imagine my life without it.