My last beta cell died today.

And with it,

my life before.

I wonder if it felt anything.

The way I feel when I’m low.

Sprawled out on the floor of my kitchen,

drunk on Hershey’s syrup.

Or when the numbers are so high,

I don’t think there’s enough water to sate them.

Does it regret not fighting harder?

The same way I wonder

if I could’ve fought back too?

At least the beta cell is dead.

It won’t have to read the comments;

hear the unsolicited advice;

or answer the question

“are you allowed to eat that?”

For the rest of my life.

Because my last beta cell died today.