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?