NaPoWriMo day 10: diseased

Pierce the skin to know the sugar in the blood.
You're not afraid of death, but to think of blindness
or a foot sawed off by sterile instruments 
sharp with purpose and good intentions--
that will steer the sweetest tooth
toward a different sort of promiscuity.

Your butcher's knives gleam on magnetic
strips above the kitchen counter,
rectangles of wood stand ready to blunt 
their cleave. Thin scars hatched upon 
surfaces fail to remind you 
that nothing remains unmarked.

It takes no time at all for the blade
to slip and enter into your own warm flesh,
your blood a bright exclamation 
on the kitchen towel that absorbs it,
your hunger unsatisfied.