"Undoing" by Murielle Muller

Undoing

I retract the needle out of my body, put the transparent cap back on the needle head, unscrew it from the medication pen, throw away the sharp.
I undid the failure of my body.

Later, I take off the lid, screw on the needle head, pull off the cap, reach towards my white shirt and pull it up. I reveal a fraction of my stomach. Scan it for an unmarked area; there it is. A small segment right underneath my ribs has not been touched, scarred in a while. I don’t think about it anymore. I just pierce.
A little resistance of the skin layer is to be overcome; an ephemeral moment of pain, when the needle gouges that minimal hole into my epidermis.
Press down, inject.

I retract the needle out of my body, put the transparent cap back on the head, unscrew it from the medication pen, throw away the sharp.
I undo the failure of my body.

Later on, I take off the lid, screw on the needle head, pull off the cap, pull up my long blue dress a little. I reveal a fraction of my stomach. Scan it for an unmarked area; there it is. A small segment right above my hips has not been touched, scarred in a while. I don’t think about it anymore. I just pierce.
A little resistance of the skin layer is to be overcome; an ephemeral moment of pain, when the needle gouges that minimal hole into my epidermis.
Press down, inject.

I retract the needle out of my body, put the transparent cap back on the head, unscrew it from the medication pen, throw away the sharp.
I undo the failure of my body.

Later on, I take off the lid, screw on the needle head, pull off the cap, lift my ruby silk blouse a little. I reveal a fraction of my stomach. Scan it for an unmarked area; there it is. A small segment next to my belly button has not been touched, scarred in a while. I don’t think about it anymore. I just pierce.
A little resistance of the skin layer is to be overcome; an ephemeral moment of pain, when the needle gouges that minimal hole into my epidermis.
Press down, inject.

I retract the needle out of my body, put the transparent cap back on the head, unscrew it from the medication pen, throw away the sharp.
I keep undoing the failure of my body.

I undo the damage; repeat morning, noon, evening, middle of the night.
I undo the damage; in my wood-scented room, on the slippery street, in the garlic-odoured restaurant, in the corner of a nebulised nightclub, on the bumpy train, at the overcrowded bus stop, underneath the trees in the silent forest. Anywhere; anytime. And sometimes, in my thoughts, I undo time.
I unlearn to estimate the quantity of sugar in my meals; I forget to think in numbers. I un-pierce my skin. I unscrew needle caps. I un-scan the un-scarred skin on my stomach. I pull down my grey sweatshirt. I unlearn to inject needles.

I go back to the hospital and lie back in bed, I get out of the stale bed, walk out backwards. I spit out my coffee, back into the cup.
I un-hear the doctor’s words: “You have juvenile diabetes. Go to the hospital immediately.”
 My phone rings backwards. I give back my coffee, I get back my money, I un-order my coffee.

I go home. I am healthy.

Murielle Mueller

Murielle Mueller is a postgraduate student of English Studies in Berlin, Germany. Her work has previously been published in C-Heads Magazine and FU-Review. She writes and performs her creative somethings in her mother tongue German, as well as English, and can be found at muriellemueller.wordpress.com.

Headshot: Juliane Schmidt

Photo Credit: Staff