His hands move over my waist to my hips. He brushes by my insulin pump, which feels to me about fifty times its actual size. I wonder, does he notice it there beneath my clothes, beneath his hand?
My bloodsugar is 355 mg/dl. I feel yucky. I know I'm spilling ketones. When he kisses me, do I taste like fruit, like wine, like the acetone that's eating away at me? Does he see the awful dry feeling behind my eyes; is he thinking I look as horrible as I feel?
He takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. I trace his palm with my fingertips. My arms above my head, he's tying my my hands - his skin so near mine again. Why do these calluses feel so obvious, so hard and unfeminine?
