Blood Sugar

Poundland. Fluorescent hum, too bright.

The bottle—isotonic pink fizz, glucose, rescue—

clutched in my shaking hand.

Energy drink, says the cashier,

shaking her head. Not old enough.

I smile, 24 and shrinking,

my legs jelly, my hands static-buzz.

No hunger, just low,

brain misfiring like a dodgy plug.

FND. Wonky wiring.

Outside, the pavement tilts.

I perch on a bench, heart tap-dancing,

muscles ghosting a seizure not yet there.

Breathe. Wait.

The library doors hush open—warmth,

sanctuary. No questions, just a woman

who nods toward the coffee station. 

Cups, sugar, kindness.

I tip in two spoonfuls, stir the world steady.

Sip. Feel myself come back.

Thank you, government, for making life

too expensive to live,

denying pensioners heating, but at least today,

you gave me somewhere to stop falling.