By Jordan Mitchell
When my mind becomes a prison
and all I can do is stare.
Sit.
Watch.
Maybe I should go outside for a walk?
The same route, five days straight
I pass underneath the cherry blossom tree.
But this time,
The burning in my throat
The sneeze that leaves my lungs
Is it the nature of spring?
The green film that covers my car?
Or something worse?
I run through my list of symptoms
I catalogue the past days I’ve had.
Every headache carries a new sense of meaning
Every cough becomes life threatening
Every shiver
and gasp
and clutch at my chest.
Every ache
And pain
And running nose.
Every time I lose my appetite
Or gain my appetite.
Every time I catch a chill
Or can’t seem to cool down.
It means nothing,
Or it means something.
And I feel the panic begin to build
And it feels like the floor has left my feet
And in that one moment
I think.
“What if…?”
Or
“Could it be…?”
But no…right?
Because it can’t be me…
It can’t be me.
It can’t be me.
It can’t be me.
It can’t…
“I’m sorry ma’am…”
Wait…me?