They blamed my job; my drunken nights.
"Type 2. Sobriety. Exercise. Diet."
The thirst cut sharp, and weight fell fast.
The pills did little. Relief didn’t last.

Behind my frame, the truth came clear:
Type 1 — but late. A childhood fear
Reached full bloom beyond all guess,
Auto-hidden. Not immune, nonetheless.

I dose. I count. I chase the flame.
I raise a glass — again, again!
There’s no hero’s tale. There is no shame.
My broken body feels no pain.