I suppose you could say I’m a bit of a hypochondriac.
Looking in the bathroom mirror, I notice it’s all steamed up.
I wipe it off with my finger,
And see, on my face,
Three spots, all in a line.
I look at them, lean in close to the mirror to see better,
And wonder
Do I have meningitis?
Or meningococcal, which is a particularly virulent strain of the aforementioned disease.
I carry my bag awkwardly all day long,
It hurts my muscles in my chest, from the strain,
And I wonder
Am I having a heart attack? Are these my final hours?
Never expecting to wake up the next morning,
Even though I’m fine.
All these things in my news on my computer,
“How a mole turned out to be stage 4 cancer”, and “Serious symptoms you should never ignore,” they don’t help.
And I worry,
My love of sugar and red meat will surely kill me early,
But I can’t stop eating it.
And the panic, a feverish, unhinged panic. I’m going to die. We’re all going to die.
I suppose you could say I’m a bit of a hypochondriac
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